ALL  THE  WAY:  BEING 

THE  COLLECTED  POEMS 

OF  AMELIA  WOODWARD  TRUESDELL 


GIFT   OF 


Oi. 


ALL  THE  WAY:  BEING 

THE  COLLECTED  POEMS 

OF  AMELIA  WOODWARD  TRUESDELL 


SAN  FRANCISCO 

A.  M.  ROBERTSON 
1913 


COPYRIGHT,  1913, 
BY  BENJAMIN  P.  KURTZ 


Printed  by 

Taylor,  Nash  &  Taylor 
San  Francisco 


[iii] 

Contents 

Page 

In  Memoriam vii 

THE  SOUL'S  RUBAIYAT — 

The  Soul's  Rubaiyat,  Part  1 3 

The  Soul's  Rubaiyat,  Part  II 11 

SONGS  BY  THE  WAY — 

The  Procession  of  the  Dumb 21 

At  Pompeii 24 

Sonnet 25 

Palestine 26 

The  Aspen 27 

God  of  the  Human  Heart 28 

The  Bronze  Buddha 29 

The  Song  of  To-day 30 

A  Nubian  Lion 31 

Sonnet 33 

The  Song  of  a  Christian  Sojourner  in  America  in  the 

Twentieth  Century 34 

Patmos  35 

To  "H.  H." 36 

On  Presentation  of  a  Loving  Cup  to  the  Former  Eegent, 

Mrs.  Ashburner 37 

In  Memoriam  38 

In  Her  Studio 39 

To  a  Friendly  Critic 40 

Heart  of  a  Rose  —  Heart  of  a  Man 41 

Sent  With  Regrets 42 

A  Choice 43 

Grievance 44 

The  Soul  of  a  Kiss 45 

"Men  Kiss  and  Ride  Away" 46 

The  Child  in  the  Heart 47 

"Love  May  Not  Sing  Again" 48 

If  Love  Were  All 49 

Love  Is  Dead  50 


302355 


[iv] 


SONGS  BY  THE  WAY — Continued.  Page 

Dead    Love 51 

Truth 52 

Truth 53 

Vita    Brevis 54 

Love's  Divination 55 

De  Profundis 56 

The   Gift 57 

Sleep 58 

Peace              59 

The  "Eeproachcs" 60 

Easter 61 

The   Call 62 

Transition 63 

Stabat  Mater 64 

A  Good  Friday  Devotion 66 

The  Mater  Pia 67 

The   First    Christmas 68 

Love    Is    Saved 69 

Farther  Shores 70 

In    Bondage 71 

The   Waiting  Note 72 

A  Kustic  Bridge 73 

Vespers    .               74 

L 'Envoi 75 

SONGS  OP  THE  PACIFIC  — 

California's   Hymn 79 

The  California  Eschscholtzia 80 

A   Stanford   Hymn 81 

A   Consecration   for   a   Non-Sectarian   Church      ...  82 

The  Song  of  the  Colorado  Eiver 83 

The  Spirit  of  the  Desert 84 

San  Francisco  Bay 85 

La   Casa   Grande      .                86 

The    Pacific  87 


SONGS  OF  THE  PACIFIC — Continued.  Page 

The  Yukon's  Song  of  the  Gold 88 

The  Malamute  Dog  of  Alaska 90 

ON  THE  SPANISH  MISSIONS  IN  CALIFORNIA — 

Proem 93 

San  Diego 94 

San  Luis  Rey  de  Francia 101 

Pala        106 

San    Juan    Capistrano 109 

San  Gabriel  Arcangel Ill 

San  Bernardino 117 

San  Fernando  Key  de  Espafia 118 

The  Christ  of  San  Buena  Ventura 120 

Santa    Barbara 122 

Santa    Ynez 126 

San  Luis  Obispo  de  Tolosa 131 

San    Miguel    Arcangel 134 

San  Carlos  del  Carmelo 135 

Santa    Cruz 141 

The  Last  Sermon  of  Fray  Junipero  Serra     ....  143 

FRANCISCA  REINA,  OR  SONGS  AND  BALLADS  OF  THE 
GREAT  FIRE  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO,  APRIL,  1906 — 

Francisca  Eeina 149 

Francisca  Dolorosa 151 

Francisca   Maclre 155 

Francisca  Js   Thanksgiving 157 

How  We  Went  Out 159 

Franeisca  Diligente 166 

The  Simple  Life  — on  Sidewalks 168 

The  Simple  Life  — in    Tents 171 

The  Simple  Life  — in    Clubs 172 

The    Eeason    Why 175 

Francisca    Gloriosa      ....  177 


VI 


TUNES  OF  WAR—  Page 

The  Salute  of  the  '  *  Immortalite  " 181 

Dewey   in   Waiting 184 

Decoration   Day 185 

Espana   Dolorosa 186 

' '  Eemembered " 188 

Lexington    Day,    1905 189 

The  Glory  of  "The  White  Man's  Burden"   ....  192 

Victoria  Kegina 194 

Labor,    the   Prophet 195 

The  Spirit  to  the  Spoilers 196 

THE  JONGLEUR'S  PRANKS— 

Yankee  Doodle  Up  to  Date 199 

line'  Rastus  to  Marse  Dewey 203 

The    Lady    Eeconciled 205 

An  Old  Bachelor 206 

A    Spinster 207 

My   Soul  and  I 208 

A   Grizzly  in   the   Zoo 210 

A    Bilious    Day 211 

Triolet 212 

Rondeau 213 

Why? 214 

The  Discarded  Lover 215 

The  Mess  of  It 216 

Progressive  Love 217 

The  Call  of  Science 218 

Psychology  Five 220 

To  College  Girls 221 

A  Pre-Adamite  on  Evolution 223 

Concerning   Hoes 227 


[vii] 

In  Memoriam 

Amelia  Woodward  Truesdell,  without  being  by  pro 
fession  a  poet,  was  yet  so  stirred  by  an  imaginative  sense 
of  the  experiences  that  during  a  busy  life  came  to  her 
no  otherwise  than  they  come  to  most  of  us,  that  she 
naturally  spoke  of  them  in  the  heightened  rhythms  that 
are  poetry.  She  was  vitally  enough  endowed  to  see  the 
things  that  happened  to  her  in  their  general,  human 
significance;  an  unusually  busy  and  practical  concern 
with  material  affairs  never  darkened  that  vision. 

And  when  in  the  course  of  those  happenings  there 
came  to  her  such  bereavements  as  come  upon  countless 
millions  of  wives  and  mothers,  this  power  of  seeing  the 
general  and  the  human  in  her  own  particular  experi 
ence  was  at  once  a  keener  pain  and  a  vicarious  comfort; 
for  that  sight,  or  insight,  became  thus  a  Vision. 

Those  who  have  suffered  will  know  the  Visions  in 
this  book  when  they  come  upon  them  among  the  poems 
called  Songs  by  the  Way. 

When,  moreover,  in  the  course  of  her  life  she  also 
had  to  make  those  readjustments  between  the  outworn 
faiths  of  one's  parents  and  one's  own  youth  on  the  one 
hand,  and  the  new  ideas,  on  the  other,  of  one's  maturity, 
which  all  thinking  people  must  make  in  every  age,  she 
made  them  so  vitally  and  conceived  them  so  strongly 
that  in  them,  too,  she  saw  a  general  human  meaning. 
Again  she  was  stirred  by  an  imaginative  sense  of  not 
uncommon  problems;  and  that,  too,  was  poetry, — 
Rubdiydt  of  the  Soul,  to  use  her  own  words. 

Then  there  were  the  little  pleasures  of  life,  and  the 
romantic  places  visited,  and  the  friendships  made,  and 
the  lost  causes  espoused.  These,  also,  were  viewed  with 
that  insight  that  had  become  habitual.  Thus  every 
thing,  with  her,  tended  to  transformation. 


[  viii  ] 


The  poems  called  Francisco,  Reina  were  written  not 
for  an  anthology,  but  to  comfort  and  cheer  an  army  of 
men  and  women,  she  one  of  them,  who  had  been  made 
homeless  by  the  unparalleled  disaster  that  prostrated 
San  Francisco  in  April  of  1906.  In  a  practical,  human 
itarian  way,  especially  in  connection  with  the  Bed  Cross 
Society,  Mrs.  Truesdell  was  so  intimately  engaged  at 
that  time  that  she  had  no  leisure  to  polish  verses  upon 
the  disaster.  That  was  her  way  in  a  great  and  un 
common  calamity.  The  songs  she  did  sing  then,  for 
she  could  not  help  singing,  came  hurried  and  breath 
less, — cheering  many  in  the  midst  of  the  awful  dust 
and  ruins  of  a  great  city.  The  songs  were  never 
changed  or  overmuch  corrected.  But  those  who  were 
there  will  turn  here  to  Francisco,  Reina,  and  they  will 
remember. 

And,  last  to  speak  of,  but  a  constant  merriment  in 
her  life,  was  the  ceaseless  chattering  of  what  she  called 
her  Imps.  And,  of  course,  Imps  of  Verse  they  were, — 
humorous  asides,  caricatures  and  topsy-turvies,  incon 
sequential  interruptions  by  the  laughable  and  grotesque 
in  the  midst  of  the  serious  and  even  sublime.  Many 
of  them,  indeed,  scribbled  themselves  in  the  middle  of  the 
Songs  and  Kubaiyat,  with  glee,  she  said,  at  their  power 
to  distort  the  beautiful  and  put  the  sublime  to  the 
ridiculous.  She  called  them  Pranks  of  the  Jongleur; 
they  are  at  the  end  of  the  book. 

******** 

Amelia  Woodward  Truesdell  was  born  at  Lowell, 
Massachusetts,  October  20,  1839.  She  graduated  from 
Mt.  Holyoke  College,  July  27,  1858.  In  1864  she  came 
to  San  Francisco,  and  was  married  to  Orran  P.  Truesdell, 
of  whom  she  was  bereaved  in  the  year  1869.  In  1873 


[ix] 


she  lost  her  first  son.     Ten  years  later  she  was  left  alone 
by  the  death  of  her  other  son. 

With  unusual  courage  and  initiative  she  then  turned 
to  many  things,  and  by  sheer  force  of  will  created  for 
herself  interests  and  responsibilities.  As  a  business 
manager,  a  member  of  clubs,  an  occasional  lecturer  and 
writer,  she  was  always  at  once  vital  and  very  kind. 
Lest  the  march  of  knowledge  should  find  her  a  straggler, 
she  had  the  ambition  and  bravery  (for  such  it  is)  to 
enroll  herself  at  a  somewhat  advanced  age  as  a  student 
in  a  university.  She  received  a  degree;  but  she  prob 
ably  gave  more  than  she  received,  for  the  way  she  bore 
her  years  was  always  an  inspiration  to  younger  gener 
ations.  Young  people  loved  her,  and  admired  her  eager 
ness  to  learn, — perhaps  marvelled  at  such  a  great  desire. 

She  died  in  November,  1912. 

******** 

The  present  editor  and  friend  was  asked  by  Mrs. 
Truesdell  to  place  together  those  of  her  poems,  pub 
lished  and  unpublished,  that  to  her  had  seemed  nearest 
worthy  of  preservation.  And  where  she  herself  had 
not  made  full  selection,  he  was  asked  to  use  his  own 
judgment.  This  he  has  done, — how  well  he  cannot  say, 
for  the  loss  of  a  most  dear  friend  has  been  in  his  heart, 
and  when  he  reads  these  poems  he  hears  her  speaking; 
he  only  knows  the  tones  he  loved  best  and  thought 
sweetest. 

These,  at  any  rate,  are  most  of  the  songs  she  made, 
from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  her  loves  and  sorrows, — 
1  'All  the  Way." 

B.  K. 


The  Soul's  Rubaiyat 


U'The  Soul's  Rubaiyat": 

A.  M.  Robertson,  San  Francisco 

1911] 


O  Pars,  awake!   The  humming -bird's  a-wing; 

Still  thrills  the  nightingale's  sweet  welcoming. 

Lo,  from  the  hills  —  the  Spring,  her  hair  snow-splashed! 

Rose  gardens  ~burst  to  wildest  blossoming. 

But  night  owls  hoot  around  Persepolis; 
Where  jeweled  feet  have  trod,  the  serpents  hiss; 
To  these  dead  halls  there  comes  no  Springtime  bliss: 
My  time-old  search  for  truth  is  but  as  this. 

This  quest  sung  he  who  took  the  Vine  to  Spouse; 
Nay  Pars,  why  from  thy  thousand  dreams  arouse  f 
If  dark  thine  ancient  doors,  where  divells  the  light? 
In  Omar's  harp,  why  wake  despair's  carouse? 


[3] 
The  Soul's  Rubaiyat 


PART! 


Of  him  who  walked  a  thousand  years  ago 
In  Persian  vales,  and  studied  human  woe 
And  the  great  Ruler's  scheme  to  man,  I  read 
And  wondered  if  aught  more  to-day  we  know; 

Aught  more,  life's  puzzle-riddle  solve  than  he; 
The  Whence,  the  Why,  the  Whither,  and  To-Be. 
We  still  are  groping  for  the  Great  Reply; 
Through  veils  and  forms,  O  God,  we  search  for  Thee. 

II 

He  taught  beneath  the  rose-trees  of  Iran, 
This  poet,  seer,  philosopher ;  this  man 
Who  spared  not  all  his  learning's  treasure  trove. 
But  vain  his  wisdom  of  the  star-writ  plan ! 

Still  would  the  multitude,  like  driven  swine, 
On  superstition  feed,  and  call  it  wine 
Of  life,  though  bitter  with  the  creeds  of  men; 
For  sleek  Tradition  cried,  "A  draught  divine!" 

Ill 

Tradition!   Serpent-born  at  Eden's  gate, 
Still  deifying  fetish,  faith,  and  fate; 
On  altars  strange,  his  false  lights  burning  yet, 
Still  blind  men's  eyes  unto  their  high  estate. 

Tradition !  Keeper  of  the  deadly  keys 
Where  souls  are  locked  in  darkness,  fed  on  lees 
Of  legends  steeped  in  dreams,  dank  cloister  weeds : 
0  God,  how  could  'st  Thou  look  and  suffer  these  ? 


[4] 


IV 

From  wading  in  the  muck  of  daily  care, 
From  'midst  the  ashes  of  dead  hopes'  despair, 
Our  souls  still  wait,  with  long  endurance  dull, 
And  lifting  helpless  hands  cry,  ''Master,  where? 

"A  score  of  centuries  since  Jesus  died, 
And  Sin  our  daily  comrade  still  ? "  we  cried. 
His  life !  And  could  it  be  in  vain  ?  Then  weep, 
Weep  on,  thou  mother  of  the  Crucified ! 


I  loved  the  high  Ideal  I  called  the  Lord ; 
I  worshiped  at  that  shrine  with  heart's  accord. 
Athwart  the  altar  trailed  a  serpent  Doubt, 
And  left  envenomed  there  the  name  of  God. 

With  the  Almighty  would  you  make  a  trade, 
As  with  a  huckster  by  the  road-side  paid  ? 
So  much  salvation  for  so  much  shed  blood, 
And  thus  your  own  just  penalty  evade? 

The  soul  revolts  at  such  a  sacrifice, 

Such  banal  temporizing  with  a  vice ; 

The  sweetest  life  the  world  has  ever  known 

Is  lost  to  earth  for  me — unworth  the  price? 

Who  then  shall  weigh  the  thing  we  call  a  sin  ? 
For  ages  God  mayhap  to  man  has  been 
More  lenient  than  His  sons.    He  knows  so  well 
How  weak  He  made  him  from  without, — within. 


VI 

All  consecration  knows  the  scourge:  the  scorn 
Of  words  which  cuts  the  heart  as  did  the  thorn 
The  Master 's  brow ;  and  through  a  dolorous  way 
It  mounts  its  calvary  of  crosses  borne. 

Vicarious  ever  is  earth's  pain;  that  pain, 
The  life-sweat  of  one  body's  loss  or  gain. 
None  stands  alone.     Each  hapless  child  of  sin 
Is  linked  to  me.    See  that  'tis  not  in  vain. 

VII 

From  Ark  of  the  old  faith  my  soul  went  out. 
Philosophy  she  skimmed,  that  sea  of  doubt, — 
But  eddying  circles  in  a  darkening  whirl, 
Maelstrom  of  words !    It  was  a  sorry  bout. 

Where  ancient  Nilus  and  the  Indus  taught ; 
Confucius  with  his  measured  wisdom  wrought, — 
No  foot-stay  there,  no  olive-branch  I  found ; 
But  wreckage  of  a  flood  of  surging  thought. 

Through  mosque  and  Buddhist  temple,  silence-shod, 

To  fires  of  old  Iran  and  budding  rod 

Of  Aaron,  back  the  devious  way  I  trod; 

And  lo!  I  found  me  many  a  Sphinx-like  god. 

But  all  their  lips  in  silence  were  and  scorn, 

At  my  poor  search  through  shrines  where  ages  gone 

Had  left  their  manual  of  a  bootless  quest : 

For  them,  no  star  of  some  new  faith  unborn! 


[6 


Altars  and  tombs  showed  man  in  tragic  fray 
Of  creeds,  but  still  the  slave  of  yesterday ; 
His  dread  of  change,  slow  death  unto  the  faiths. 
Better  a  red-robed  charlatan  at  play! 

VIII 

And  still  the  Potter 's  wheel  is  turned  by  Fate : 
He  tosses  out  our  shards  of  love  and  hate 
As  whirls  the  clay  about.    We  wonder  why 
We  hold  such  scraps  and  shreds  for  our  estate. 

Sharp-edged  tools  within  an  infant's  hand! 
These  passions  which  we  did  not  understand 
Surprised  us  by  their  mastery.     Then  who 
Had  right  for  us,  such  dangers  to  command  ? 

Did  Cain,  that  life  was  sacred  comprehend  ? 
Then  why  distraught  when  he,  without  a  friend, 
Went  forth  ?    Did  Judas  know  his  kiss  of  death 
Would  mark  for  him,  of  heaven  and  earth  the  end  ? 

IX 

For  Truth  I  searched  a  hundred  seas  and  lands ; 
I  heard  his  call  and  ran  with  outstretched  hands ; 
But  when  I  thought  I  had  his  footsteps  traced, 
He  just  had  gone  to  walk  on  other  strands. 

All  up  and  down  the  streets  and  country  roads, 
I  asked  for  him.    Men  pointed  to  the  loads 
Upon  their  backs  and  dumbly  plodded  on. 
These  body  needs — accursed  Eden  goads! 


Within  the  dark  I  heard  a  voice  one  night, 
And  all  the  air  was  vibrant  with  the  light, — 
Some  thought  that  crashed  its  zigzag  way ;  and  then 
An  Error's  mocking  laugh.    The  ribald  wight! 

I  thought  one  day  I  'd  caught  his  beckoning  glance ; 
Covered  with  light — Transfiguration's  trance— 
I  stood  with  souls  in  white.    I  raised  my  eyes, 
Then  hope  was  naught  but  memory  of  a  chance. 

XI 

We  read  that  Truth  from  one  eternal  place 
To  us  shall  ever  turn  a  changeless  face, 
A  phantom  mirror  in  his  hand,  forsooth ; 
Of  yesterday,  to-day  reflects  no  trace. 

For  Science  changes  every  hour  her  schemes ; 
Empiric !   What  to-day  as  fact  she  deems, 
Next  year  is  refuse  by  the  wayside  flung ; 
For  souls  in  mortal  need,  what  good  are  dreams  ? 

XII 

I  questioned  Nature  for  some  comfort-screed; 
For  high  analogies ;  God 's  word  and  deed 
Must  blend  in  one  great  scheme  of  law.    Quoth  she, 
* '  The  individual  is  a  worthless  weed. ' ' 

The  specie  life  with  its  unbroken  train 

Is  Nature's  god;  and  this  for  souls  in  pain? 

As  cold  as  death  she  reads  her  cruel  creed: 

*  *  You  're  weak  ?    Then  pass ;  the  strongest  must  remain. 


[8] 


XIII 

It  is  the  old  estate  of  me  and  thee ; 

Dividual  life  lost  in  captivity 

Unto  the  whole.  "What  means  the  world  to  me?" 

Thus  Omar  cried.   The  end?   Earth  waits  to  see. 

Since  his  red  wine  a  thousand  years  of  work ; 
Its  bold  results  our  logic  may  not  shirk. 
But  of  God's  mind  to  man, — the  Unit-Soul? 
Says  Nature's  law,  "Away  with  shrine  and  kirk." 

XIV 

0  Truth!    Bemasked  with  smirk  of  every  race 
Thy  brow !   How  shall  we  know  thine  alien  face 
By  strange  device  of  old  and  new  disguised  ? 
Yet  souls  distraught  still  seek  thy  dwelling-place. 

We  would  believe  thy  hidden  brow  is  bright, 
Immortal  reflex  of  the  Essence,  Light. 
Why  change  thy  raiment  with  the  beggar  Doubt, 
With  all  her  shams  and  trumpery  bedight? 

Too  faint  thy  image  is  in  science'  well, 

Thy  mark  uncertain  as  the  sagas  tell. 

O  Truth,  tear  off  thy  masks,  and  pray  make  haste, 

Or  Doubt  shall  cast  us  into  deepest  hell. 

XV 

0  for  Ithuriel  's  heaven-tempered  spear ! 

Some  spirit  talisman  that's  crystal-clear! 

Encased  within  this  casket  of  dull  clay, 

What  chance  has  man  the  truth  to  know  or  hear? 


Silent,  Thou  God,  as  Thy  unanswering  sky. 
Perhaps  sometime,  Thou 'It  tell  Thy  creatures  why 
The  true  and  false  are  dual-unity. 
And  now,  have  mercy  if  in  sin  wTe  die. 

XVI 

Since  Death  turned  down  the  Persian's  empty  glass, 
The  sun  has  seen  the  train  of  centuries  pass ; 
Uncertain-lipped,  we  question  still  the  law, 
And  still  to  us  the  heavens  are  as  brass. 

And  when  the  past  has  swallowed  up  to-day, 

The  future  from  us  stolen  nigh  away, 

We  feel  the  shiver  of  the  river-brink, 

Ah,  then  forsooth  we  '11  grovel,  whining,  pray ! 

Aye,  pray  to  one  we  never  have  addressed ; 
Reach  for  the  cup  our  lips  have  passed  unpressed ; 
See  heaven  shrivel  and  shrink  above  our  heads ; 
Ye  Moths ! — my  kin !  Where  shall  we  then,  unblessed  ? 

XVII 

My  soul  go  hence!   This  strife  is  idle  hum; 

This  life  the  beating  of  an  empty  drum ; 

A  Holy  Grail  evanished  is  this  Truth. 

Back  to  thy  nothingness !   Thou  slave,  be  dumb. 

And  when  again  th'  Eternal  Sakis  use 

This  earthen  bowl  I  found,  but  did  not  choose, 

Still  other  bubbles  in  to  pour,  its  clay 

The  flavor  of  mortality  may  lose. 


10 


XVIII 

Will  its  new  lips  be  only  formed  to  sigh? 
Our  questions,  will  it  face  with  dreary  eye? 
Nay,  nay,  I  Ve  wept  its  tears,  this  beaten  clay ; 
For  man  will  then  have  come  the  Great  Reply? 

Beneath  this  star-splashed,  zodiac-painted  bowl 
Down-pressed,  we  crawl  with  smothering  of  soul; 
Is  it  uplifted  for  the  Sufi  seer 
Whose  tragic  songs  to  us  through  centuries  roll  ? 

XIX 

Omar !  Ah,  do  you  yet  the  mystery  know  ? 
Is  Death  a  Fakir  with  no  wonder-show? 
Or  have  the  Pleiads  now  no  room  for  souls, 
The  I,  the  You,  diffused  in  ether-flow? 

Through  space  as  winds  Death's  caravan  its  train, 
Have  you  aught  sweeter  found  than  earth-love's  pain? 
Flesh-robe  of  sorrow  must  you  wear  again? 
Why  dream  I,  mad?    All  dreams  for  man  are  vain. 


[11] 

The  Soul's  Rubaiyat 

PART  II 
I 

The  I,  the  Creature  Man,  unto  my  soul: 

" Would 'st  look  within  the  Ruler's  great  Earth-Scroll? 

The  folded  centuries  up-gather  then; 

By  History's  torch  new-lit,  the  tale  unroll. 

* '  'Tis  travail  and  the  sweat  of  blood  for  thee ; 
The  fixed  stars  of  belief  reel  drunkenly ; 
Thy  sun  is  blotted  out;  thy  God  eclipsed; 
Go  find  us  life ;  this  chaos  strangles  me. 

II 

''Rugged  the  mountains  round  thy  pathway  close; 
From  peak  to  peak,  far-glittering  with  the  snows 
Of  Reason 's  eyrie  home.    In  what  deep  hell 
Beside  thee  Doubt,  with  torch  inverted,  goes! 

"Through  legend- vales  thou'lt  follow  pale  Despair; 
Doubt's  poisonous  night-shade,  but  no  hope-ray  there. 
When  plaints  the  ringdove  for  her  Yusuf  lost, 
Thou  soul,  alone,  wilt  echo  ' Where,  O  where?' 

"But  oh!  through  stress,  lose  not  thy  God!   No  God? 
Rather  I  'd  be  again  my  native  clod ; 
Would  set  thee  free  from  this  earth-hampered  flight. 
Make  haste :    I  see  too  near  the  broken  sod. 

"Press  on  till  bulbuls  to  the  lark  repeat 
Thy  prayer,  thine  incense  for  the  heavenly  seat ; 
Till  thou  with  morning's  messenger  canst  sing 
'  'Tis  there!'— red  roses  crushing  at  thy  feet. 


[12 


III 

"Set  up  thine  altar  then,  emblazoned  Truth, — 
The  In  Hoc  Solus  of  they  faith  forsooth; 
And  thy  libations  pour,  my  heart 's  best  wine ; 
There  sacrifice  the  treasures  of  my  youth. 

"Thy  Jesus  Hominum  Salvator  too, 

This  shrine  may  prove, — those  altar-legends  true; 

As  from  the  dying  seed  new  breath  suspires, 

From  faith's  dead  husks  Christ-life  may  spring  anew. 

IV 

"Stand  up  before  thine  altar  now  and  swear, 
Thou  priestess  Soul,  that  to  our  God  Thou 'It  bare 
Thy  brow  unto  whatever  name  be  true ; 
Forgotten  be  the  seal  it  used  to  wear. 

"Thou 'It  flinch  not  when  old  altars  fall  to  naught. 

Theologies  stripped  to  the  quick  of  thought, 

And  faiths,  the  sinews  of  thy  life,  inwrought 

With  thy  heart-threads,  thou  'It  give  for  freedom  bought : 

"  'Tis  spirit-vision  with  the  single  view, 

A  talisman  to  test  the  false  and  true. 

No  double  thought ;  no  judgment  in  reserve ; 

Mammon  or  God;  thou  can'st  not  serve  the  two. 


'  *  That  thou  wilt  do  all  this  for  thee  and  me, 
Swear  it,  as  there  is  love  'twixt  me  and  thee.' 
And  as  she  passed,  my  heart  wept  bitterly : 
Yet  'tis  man's  only  hope  that  thought  be  free. 


13 


But  oh !  the  hurt  when  old  beliefs  are  rent 
From  lives  by  church-yard  door-ways  long  content 
O  dogmas  sacred  as  the  mother's  breast! 
Make  haste  with  healing  lest  the  years  be  spent. 


VI 

She  came.    Her  step  scarce  moved  her  vestments'  fold. 

The  law  was  written  in  her  lips '  stern  mould ; 

I  cried  aloud,  "0  my  beloved  speak." 

Far  off  her  voice ;  her  eyes  were  deep  and  old. 

VII 

t  i  Two  graven  tablets  found  I  by  the  way : 
One  chiseled  by  the  Past,  one  by  To-day : 
All  faiths  must  read  by  these  or  else  we  say, 
'Perhaps  the  master-gravers  were  at  play.' 

"History  and  science — friendly  scribes,  if  reads 
The  reader  well;  they  mark  man's  changing  meeds. 
When  Knowledge  swings  the  world  in  line  with  law, 
She'll  show  God's  purpose  to  the  human  needs. 

"For  individual  lives,  encrusted  long 
In  chrysalis  of  creeds,  are  with  a  song 
And  spread  of  wings  outbursting  to  the  hope 
That  Fear  as  fetish  is  a  primal  wrong. 

VIII 

"These  crowds  that  with  a  nation's  vigor  burned, 
Whose  souls  for  truth  of  their  Creator  yearned ; 
They  sought  a  Christ  but  found  Tradition's  hell; 
What  wonder  if  to  God-distrust  they  turned  ? 


14] 


4 '  But  sons  of  God,  the  seal  is  on  them  all ; 
Not  potsherds  set  in  rows  against  the  wall. 
With  errors  drugged,  they  stir  as  men  in  sleep ; 
New  life  a-thrill,  they  would  shake  off  the  thrall. 

IX 

* '  Yea  soul,  but  veinings  of  a  leaflet 's  plan 
Go  read,"  I  cried.    "From  it  the  Maker  scan. 
The  individual,  what  is  he  to  God? 
O  tragedy  of  him,  the  Unit-Man!" 

X 

And  long  I  waited  while  she  wandered — where? 


Far  off  I  saw  her,  resurrection  fair 

Of  form ;  her  face  a  glory  from  within ; 

I  knew  she  had  with  spirits  swept  the  air. 

"  Tis  Love,"  she  cried.    "A  heart  of  love  the  key 
That  opens  now  the  one  life-truth  to  thee; 
That  God  is  love  to  man,  and  only  love, 
To  His  own  children  whom  He  would  make  free. 

"In  lights  sur'fine — the  tints  from  desert  sands— 
Beside  me  stood  a  man  with  pierced  hands, 
His  brightness  shaded  by  the  mantling  sun; 
His  voice, — no  sound  so  sweet  on  summer  strands. 


[15 


XI 

"  'Man  is  not  left  alone  upon  the  sod 
Of  earth,  his  home,  though  often  weary  trod; 
God's  amulet  of  love,  within  he  bears; 
No  heart  that  loves  can  ever  lose  its  God. 

"  'And  when  thou  bearest  to  the  river-brink 

Thy  talisman  of  love,  thou  shalt  not  shrink; 

And  there  the  Angel  of  eternal  life 

Shalt  lift  her  Cup  o'er- flowed,  and  bid  thee  drink.' 

XII 

"And  he  was  gone.     The  Mother-Earth  looked  up, 
A  twilight  on  her  face ;  the  hasty  sup 
Of  sweetness,  fragrant  on  the  desert  air ; 
Earth  sighed  for  yet  a  cup — a  brimming  Cup. 

"A  tender  mantle  of  his  thought  to  thee 
Fell  on  me  as  he  passed.    Love  gives  thee  free 
Salvation  from  the  'Body  of  this  death,' 
The  world-old  fetish,  dread  of  God's  decree. 

XIII 

"Even  as  on  Judea's  mountain-side, 
He  spake.    And  then  I  knew  with  vision  wide, 
Not  lore  occult  nor  dogmas  complicate 
Made  of  the  Nazarene,  the  Crucified. 

"But  patience  meeting  wrong  with  meekness  mild; 
Simplicity  with  wisdom  of  a  child; 
And  charity's  clean  hand  that  cast  no  stone, 
And  raised  the  weeping  Mary,  undefined. 


16 


"It  is  the  spirit  of  the  Master's  thought; 

Not  deep  developments,  by  scholars  wrought 

Of  doctrines  that  would  shrivel  on  the  lips 

Which  'Peace  and  good  will'  from  the  manger  brought. 

"Spirit  of  love  all  human  and  divine; 
One  chalice  ruby  with  his  heart's  red  wine, 
From  lip  to  lip,  the  Rabbin  then  shall  pass 
In  mosque-cathedral-temple,  one  pure  shrine. 

XIV 

"And  there  shall  come  a  time  of  Pentecost 
To  thee  upon  thy  homeward  way,  but  lost; 
When  'tongues  of  fire,'  a  spirit  flame,  the  truth 
For  thee,  shall  heal  thy  heart,  sore  question-tossed. 

"Then  life  shall  be  an  Olivet  of  peace, 
And  from  its  height  thy  vision  shall  increase 
To  unknown  kingdoms  of  His  love  and  joy, 
Till  doubts  like  waves  on  a  dead  sea  shall  cease. 

"Be  it  Love's  Zion-heights  immortalized, 
Be  it  Gethsemanes  pain-solemnized, 
Be  it  the  cross  of  life-hopes  sacrificed, 
Thine  eyes  shall  see  the  fields  emparadised. " 

XV 

She  ceased.    And  from  her  eyes'  uplifted  sight 
A  splendor  filled  the  deepness  of  the  night : 
Oh,  mantle  of  the  hope  that  covered  me ! 
0  Truth,  the  glory  of  that  desert  light ! 


17] 


XVI 

"Accept  defeat  as  to  Creation's  plan," 
I  cried.    "There  is  no  other  peace  for  man. 
The  De  Profundis  of  a  life  is  this, — 
Would  god  be  God  if  I  His  will  could  scan  ? 

"Now  in  the  sun  I  set  the  bowl  to-day: 
What  matter  be  it  brazen  bowl  or  clay  ? 
It  gathered  up  the  light  of  yesterday ; 
To-morrow  it  shall  draw  a  brighter  ray. 

XVII 

"Once  Ramoth  scoffed  and  clashed  the  heavenly  keys 
One  door  defied  his  hand.     'What  then  are  these? 
Insult  from  Him  ? '  he  cried.    Then  Astrof el, 
'The  mystery  of  His  Godhead  would 'st  thou  seize?' 

"So  I,  the  Self,  this  terror-stricken  lord 
Of  earth  who  is  afraid  to  meet  his  God, 
Upon  th'  Eternal  Sword  would  lay  a  hand, 
And  would  compel  th'  Almighty's  final  Word. 

XVIII 

' '  Forever  vanished  now  the  great  god  Fear ; 
Released  his  captives,  to  the  daylight-cheer. 
Gone  too,  the  little  gods  of  fretting  creeds ; 
But  Love  remains  and  God  is  there — is  here. 

"I  see  men  perjured,  mad  with  lust  of  fame; 
I  see  them  reeking  with  the  gutter's  shame. 
Behold!  they  rise  and  call  upon  God's  name; 
For  Fear  lives  not,  but  Love  with  eyes  of  flame." 


[18] 


XIX 

O  Love,  our  refuge  in  earth 's  wildest  storm ! 
O  Service,  life-breath  of  a  heart  that's  warm ! 
A  dual-unity,  of  heaven  born ; 
For  love  is  service  in  its  highest  form. 

Flame-tints  that  shimmer  on  the  desert  air! 
Love-lights  that  make  Life's  sands  a  garden  fair, 
Where  joy  and  pain  sing  softly  to  the  soul 
That  God  in  man  is  Love  in  human  care. 


Songs  by  the  Way 


[From  "Francisco,  Reina  and  Other  Poems  "; 

A.  M.  Robertson,  San  Francisco 

1912] 


Spirit  of  God  that  fills  eternal  space, 
Somewhere  ivithin  the  regions  of  thy  grace 

Must  lurk  the  beauty  that  I  seek. 

Strengthen  the  vision  that  is  weak; 
Flow  through  my  opened  mind  and  leave  its  trace: 
Aye,  fill  me  with  it  in  my  humble  place. 


[21] 

The  Procession  of  the  Dumb 

In  deep  thought-watches  with  the  Night,  a  host 

Passed  by;  a  noiseless  host,  still  souls, 

Each  brow  embrand  with  pain;  of  thwarted  lives 

A  dire  processional.     "  Father  of  all, 

These,  too,  are  thine?" 

And  thus  the  prophet  Night : 
"Thou  watcher  by  the  gates  of  the  unknown, 
Dumb  in  the  strife  for  immortality 
Thy  fellows  seek  a  voice  for  their  mute  woe. ' ' 
And  these  passed  on  and  on,  the  hapless  ones 
Ill-shaped  from  stress  of  bodies  ill-begot ; 
In  thrall  of  deathless  circumstance, — a  crowd 
To  whom  ideals  are  but  a  dream  of  pain; 
And  with  them  those,  dead-lustred  of  the  eye, 
0  darkest  spirits,  they  who  have  no  dreams. 

Came  tearless  mourners  here,  their  all  in  one 
Too  dainty  bit  of  clay,  or  tiny  hand 
Uptossing  to  their  arms ;  supreme  of  woe, 
That  their  wide  eyes  are  dry.    And  I  for  them 
Must  weep  the  speech  of  tears?    Came  lovers  cold, 
Who  shivered  at  love's  limitations  found. 
And  they,  the  worshipful,  who  saw  no  God 
Of  joy  in  their  unariswering  skies. 

0  train 

Most  pitiful,  the  artists  of  unskill! 
The  colorist  to  whom  in  mockery 
Light's  pageantries  appear!    The  sculptor's  touch 
Which  gives  no  marble  breath ;  the  artisan 
Whose  fingers  find  no  thought !   The  voiceless  songs ! 
Benumbed  of  throat  and  hand,  their  lyres  unstrung, 
The  poet  souls  that  know  not  words'  delight, — 


22 


Ah,  who  shall  tell  the  ecstasy  of  pain 
That  sleeps  at  last,  its  songs  unsung? 

And  lo ! 

A  crowd  whose  likeness  men  saw  not  and  lived. 
The  uncrowned  throng  of  the  ambitious,  these, 
Who  ever  for  the  laurel  pluck  the  bay. 
Who,  unanointed  with  the  altar-chrism 
Of  genius,  yet  see  visions  come  and  go. 
One  bound  of  foot  would  walk ;  one  drags  a  stone ; 
Together  chained,  some  rage  as  galley  slaves; 
The  palsied  limbs  would  keep  apace ;  the  hands 
Close  tied  would  hide  a  wound ;  a  deathless  worm 
One  slays  in  vain.    And  all  make  shift  to  smile. 
0  flameless  candle  and  the  empty  dish ! 

Thus  poverty  and  tasks  unfit  and  bonds 
Unloved!    Fair  tastes  denied,  and  all  the  train 
Of  appetites,  of  passions,  and  disease, 
Had  left  on  every  brow  the  unhealed  brand 
Of  shame  or  multitudinous  sin, — dread  stamp 
Of  disappointed  lives. 

Again  the  Night: 

"  Singer  from  hill-top  shrines,  the  mountain  air 
Of  life  bear  in  thy  sweeping  garments  down, 
So  breath  may  be  in  this  dead  place.    Sing  thou 
Of  growth  for  all  the  stultified, — that  he 
Vampire  despair,  is  dead.    The  souls  long  blind 
That  dwelt  in  error's  darkened  house,  look  forth 
From  opened  windows  to  the  light.    Behold, 
Twin  stars  dispel  low-scudding  clouds !    Now  shrinks 
Dead  fear  and  shrivels  in  the  dawn.    Lo,  truth 
And  knowledge  from  their  star-dust  are  as  suns ! 


[23] 


A  final  state  the  universe  has  not ; 

Nor  knows  all  space  the  wrecking  words  'Too  late.' 

"Aye,  shout  aloud  that  these  earth-appetites, 
Of  body  born,  are  not  of  soul.    Yea,  cry 
The  clarion  call  thy  spirit  hears :    '  When  these 
Clay  lanterns  of  the  flesh  shall  fall  away, 
Shall  into  pieces  fall,  the  smothered  fire 
In  purer  air  shall  burst  to  brighter  flame 
And  burn  anew  as  lit  from  God's  own  light.'  ' 


[24] 

At  Pompeii 

In  sunless  depths  of  old  Pompeian  halls, 
In  pose  of  life  among  the  pictured  walls 

Were  human  bodies  found,  unchanged  in  mold 
Since  Grace  was  shocked  to  stillness,  meeting  Death. 
A  ray,  a  motion  of  the  new  life's  breath, — 

To  dust  they  fell,  a  heap  of  ashes  cold. 

Within  our  hearts  are  secret  crypts  which  hide 

Grief -forms  unchanged  through  years.     They  still  abide 

As  things  of  life,  these  hopes  and  dreams  long  dead. 
If  but  to-day's  sharp  lights  were  bravely  thrown 
Upon  those  figures  time-enshrined  and  lone, 

To  naught  would  fall  the  shapes  of  sainted  dread. 


[25] 
Sonnet 

High  in  a  Roman  tower  where  white  doves  feed, 
An  artist  toils  alone.    The  plastic  clay 
He  molds  with  living  touch  from  day  to  day, 

Till  love's  own  dream  of  love  his  fond  eyes  read. — 

In  work-shops  bare,  the  artisans  with  speed 

Of  cunning  hands  their  life-trained  chisels  ply ; 
The  model  fair  before  the  watchful  eye 

They  reproduce  with  earnest,  patient  heed. 

The  Master 's  life !    Ideal  so  fair  and  high 

To  grasp,  we  with  the  Master's  thought  must  vie. 

The  workmen  we  with  rude  or  skillful  hand 

From  out  the  record  marble,  statues  make. 

Alas,  if  idle  blows  that  beauty  break 
Which  for  eternity  arid  time  must  stand. 


[26] 

Palestine 

0  Land,  a-stoop  with  penitential  years, 
Thou  tragedy  of  treason  to  thy  God, 
Where  Sons  of  Allah  hold  with  foot  unshod 

The  altar-place  of  Judah's  fruitless  tears! 

Moriah  's  hill !    Blood-sacrifice  of  old 

When  David  slew  on  Oman's  threshing  floor; 

Where  Abram's  knife  was  lifted,  long  before 
The  mornings  flushed  thy  temple 's  dome  of  gold. 

Thou  Zion  walls  where  Jacob's  children  pray 

Above  the  vaults  which  hid  a  nation 's  shame ! 
0  Syrian  sun,  how  canst  thou  bare  thy  flame  ? 

Weep,  Israel,  weep!  Alas  for  Calvary's  day! 

Thou  Nazareth,  we  wonder  at  thy  dower, 

Thou  Olivet  and  Lebanon  afar, 

Meek  Bethlehem  that  stayed  the  wandering  star, 
We're  dumb  before  the  mystery  of  thy  power. 

Gethsemane,  with  olive  twilight  dim, 

We  stand  where  Jesus  held  the  cup  of  woe; 
We  feel  the  angel  forms  still  come  and  go 

Among  the  changeless  trees  that  sheltered  Him. 

Garden  which  saw  love's  sacrificial  birth, 

Where  olives,  bent  with  thrice  a  thousand  years, 
Still  droop  above  our  sacrament  of  tears, — 

O  God !  to  kneel  upon  the  self -same  earth ! 


[27] 
The  Aspen 

A  Legend  of  Palestine 

O  Aspen,  why  shiver  thus  in  affright? 

Have  your  leaves  from  eternal  penance  no  rest? 
Did  you  bide  so  long  on  some  eerie  quest 
That  a  terrified,  uninvited  guest 
On  earth  you  seem  ? 
Does  memory  dream 

Of  the  houris  whose  eyes  were  jewels  of  light  ? 
Do  you  tremble  in  fear  or  in  hidden  delight  ? 
0  Aspen,  why  shiver  thus  in  affright? 

0  mortal,  speak  never  lightly  of  me ; 
I  stood  on  Calvary's  hillside  when 
He  was  pierced  in  the  side  by  the  Roman  men, 
And  the  high  priests  scoffed  beneath.    Since  then 
That  cruel  jeer 
Forever  I  hear; 

Forever  His  crimson  blood  I  see; 
Forever  no  peace  to  my  heart  can  be; 
0  brother,  speak  never  lightly  of  me. 


[28] 
God  of  the  Human  Heart* 

"God  of  the  Open  Air!"     God  of  the  Human  Heart! 
On  heights,  though  Thou  art  there,  of  sorrow  Thou  art 

part. 

God  of  the  forest  arch !   God  of  the  altar-flame ! 
Beneath  the  skies  or  groined  roof,  Thou  art  the  same. 

Be  it  cathedral  choir  or  swinging  bird 

Thou  hearest  singing  in  Thy  praise, 

They  bring  unto  Thine  ear  the  same  sweet  word 

From  gargoyled  tower  or  copse  of  bending  sprays. 

In  busy  streets  where  we  are  smallest  part 

Of  currents  gushing  from  the  city's  heart, 

In  dens  or  gilded  crypts  of  crime,  some  spark 

Of  light  I  find, — some  thought,  some  hope,  some  mark 

Of  Thee,  illuminating  with  Thy  sweet  control 

Some  secret  impulse  of  a  sin-stained  soul. 

In  death  throes  of  the  hopes  that  fall 

When  we  to  earth  our  dreams  of  service  fling, 

In  bitterness  of  joys  that  pall, 

In  fruitless  Autumn  from  a  blossoming  Spring, — 

Though  we  be  dumb  with  failures,  Thou  art  there, 

Bringing  life-buoyance  of  the  open  air. 

In  sickness  when  the  pulse  is  low  with  midnight  chill, 
And  death-moths  flutter  round  the  candle's  flare, 
Thou  walkest  softly  on  the  night,  and  lo !  the  thrill 
Of  life  is  in  the  light  which  follows  where 
Thy  footsteps  make  our  dawn,  "God  of  the  Open  Air." 


*With    acknowledgments    to    Mr.    Henry    Van    Dyke's    poem, 
"God    of    the    Open    Air." 


[29] 

The  Bronze  Buddha 

On  the  lotus  blossom  the  Buddha  is  sitting, 

With  the  cobra's  hood  on  his  head; 
The  sun  and  the  moon  behind  him  enfigured 

In  a  bronze  of  gold  and  of  red. 
For  the  half  of  a  thousand  years  he  had  sat  there 

When  the  Bethlehem  hymn  was  sung ; 
To  Nirvana's  passionless  peace  he  was  passing 

When  the  Christ-Child's  anthem  rung. 

On  his  forehead  the  spot  of  the  chosen  immortal, 

Kevered  as  the  seal  divine ; 
Ample-lipped  is  his  mouth,  but  no  human  emotion 

Breaks  the  fullness  of  curving  line. 
And  narrow  his  eyes,  but  life-shot,  and  gazing 

With  a  haunting  calm  to  your  own ; 
On  his  lap  the  folded  fingers  are  lying, 

The  labors  of  man  to  them  unknown. 

And  the  nerveless  type  of  a  dream  he  embodies, 

The  inertia  of  unpulsed  soul ; 
But  a  mystery  vast  as  the  years  immemorial 

Which  into  the  silence  roll. 
And  illusions  as  subtle  as  orient  attars 

Across  the  lulled  senses  creep, 
Till  my  spirit  is  weighted  with  aeons  and  asons 

Of  stillness  and  dreamless  sleep. 


[30] 

The  Song  of  To-day 

The  singers  sing  not  the  sweet  songs  to-day, 
Their  eyes  are  dull  and  their  hearts  are  old ; 

The  butterfly's  pastel  wing  is  grey, 

The  altars  are  dumb  and  the  lyrics  are  cold. 

Then  whither  away  has  Poesy  fled  ? 

She  roams  not  the  tinted  depths  of  space, 
The  Pleiad  crown  she  has  cast  from  her  head : 

Where  shall  we,  the  desolate,  find  her  place? 

Go  down  to  the  room  of  the  panting  steam; 

She  looks  in  the  face  of  the  fluent  steel, 
And  sweeter  to  her  than  Sappho's  dream 

Are  the  purring  band  and  the  humming  wheel. 

'Tis  the  song  of  throttles  and  rivets  and  bonds, 
The  song  of  an  age  of  inventive  might : 

The  song  of  the  man  who  sings  with  his  hands 
The  poem  God  whispered  to  him  in  the  night. 

She  has  caught  the  flash  from  the  era's  brain, 
She  smiles  at  the  soot  on  her  folded  wings ; 

She  has  struck  the  key  to  the  world's  refrain, 
' '  Lo,  Matter  is  crowned  and  sits  with  the  kings ! ' 


[31] 
A  Nubian  Lion 

Monarch  dethroned,  with  eyes  where  smouldering  fires 
Seem  ever  bursting  into  memory, 
Whose  brows  are  but  captivity's  despair, 
What  tragedy  of  other  life  has  left 
Such  majesty  upon  thy  wrinkled  front? 

Why  plungest  at  thy  cage?    Dost  see  thy  foes, 
Princes  who  smote  thy  sires  in  Babylon 
Or  in  Persepolis?    Thou  art  avenged; 
Thine  ancestors  have  cast  for  centuries 
Their  moonlight  silhouettes  upon  the  floors 
And  peristyles  of  their  dead  palaces. 

Thou  criest  from  thy  sleep ;  dost  hear  in  dreams 
The  priestess  maidens  singing  by  the  Nile  ? 
Does  their  low  chant  drive  thy  dumb  being  mad 
With  memory  of  life  in  Philaa's  groves? 

Whose  entity  thus  paces  to  and  fro? 

Does  Alexander  pant  for  worlds?    Thy  roar, 

Is  it  some  Caasar's  fury  at  duress? 

In  thy  dun  hide,  does  he  of  Marathon 

Brood  in  thy  sullen  wrath?     Thy  whimpering  whine? 

Is  Xerxes  weeping  still  for  Salamis? 

Their  peoples  are  as  naught — while  thou?    Thy  race 

Is  yet  the  jungle 's  prince ;  the  desert 's  king. 

But  what  is  heritage  to  thee  in  chains? 
And  what  to  thee  is  aught  save  liberty 
And  the  wild  smell  of  hidden  lairs,  where  calls 
Thy  lonely  mate  across  the  Nubian  night? 


32 


Know  this,  thou  prince  of  Pers  or  priest  of  Nile, 
In  bondage  and  revolt  thou'rt  not  alone. 
O  fellow  captive,  rest !    Perhaps  for  us, 
For  thee  and  me,  may  wait  still  other  forms; 
With  kings  we  yet  may  walk  among  the  stars. 


[33] 

Sonnet 

What  owe  I  to  my  sister  of  the  poor  ? 

Or  to  my  brother  with  blood-dripping  hands? 

To  him  the  golden  largess  of  fair  lands? 
To  her  the  gauze  and  girdled  gems'  allure? 
Or  shall  I  from  God's  mountain  summits  pure 

Bend  down  with  pity  of  His  love  divine — 

But  still  as  largess  from  some  far  off  shrine — 
To  heal  the  bruises  which  to  life  innure? 

Nay,  nay ;  a  brotherhood  that  knows  its  own, 
Which  passing,  calls  in  no  uncertain  tone, 
While  it  extends  the  even  hand  of  friend, 
"Hail,  comrade  hail!     We  fare  the  self -same  way; 
Come,  let  us  walk  together  for  the  day; 
Together  we  may  find  the  wished-f or  end. ' ' 


[34] 

The  Song  of  a  Christian  Sojourner  in 
America  in  the  Twentieth  Century* 

If  Christ  be  God,  I  Him  adore; 
If  Christ  be  man,  I  love  Him  more; 
God-gotten  One  of  heavenly  fame, 
Or  Mary's  son  without  a  name; 
Messiah,  King,  or  Nazarene, 
To  me  the  same  all  titles  mean; 
Still  at  His  feet  my  all  I  lay, 
In  life  or  death,  I'm  His  alway; 
Nor  Sin  nor  Hell  shall  come  between. 


*With  acknowledgments  to  Richard  Watson  Gilder  and  his 
poem,  "The  Song-  of  a  Heathen  Sojourner  in  Galilee  A.  D.  32," 
which  follows: 

"If   Jesus    Christ   is   a   man, — 

"And  only  a   man, —  I   say 
"That  of  all  mankind  I  cleave  to  him, 

"And  to  him  will  I  cleave  alway. 

"If  Jesus   Christ   is   a  God, — 

"And  the  only  God, —  I  swear 
"I  will  follow  him  through  heaven  and  hell, 

"The  earth,  the  sea,  and  the  air." 


[35] 

Patmos 

O  Patmos!  Island  of  the  visioned  skies, 
Where  John  beheld  the  wonders  of  the  Sevens,- 
The  thunders,  trumpets,  and  the  vials  of  wrath 
Poured  out:  the  awful  star-way  of  their  path 
To  earth,  from  mysteries  beyond  the  heavens! 
0  spread  for  us  those  fields  of  Paradise ! 


[36] 

To"H.  H." 

Helen  Hunt  Jackson,  author  of  Eamona. 

Her  art,  though  beaten  gold  it  lies, 
Her  words  atint  with  nature's  dyes, 
Her  deepest  thought,  the  under  flow 
Of  ocean-silences  below: 
'Twas  not  for  these  we  loved  her  so. 

Not  even  for  the  gentle  grace 

That  followed  her  in  homeward  place 

As  perfume  does  a  swaying  flower; 

Not  for  her  kindness'  gracious  dower; 

Not  for  the  magic  of  her  glance, 

When  beauty's  glint  made  sudden  trance; 

Nor  her  quick  ear  for  nature's  cry, 

From   "Hedge-row   things"   to   human   sigh; 

Not  for  her  courage  in  the  face 

Of  death,  when  with  a  royal  grace, 

As  kings  unto  their  equals  yield 

A  sword  well  worn  on  worthy  field, 

She  gave  her  body  to  the  hand 

Which  holds  the  Maker's  last  command. 

"How  she  loved  us":  her  voice  we  hear. 
"It  was  for  this  she  was  so  dear" — 
Her  words — a  flower  upon  her  bier. 


[37] 

On  Presentation  of  a  Loving  Cup  to  the 
Former  Regent,*  Mrs.  Ashburner 

Sister,  by  many  acts  endeared, 
As  Daughters  of  a  Cause  revered 
Which  held  our  sires  in  strongest  band — 
This  cup  we  offer  to  your  hand. 
Sweeter  than  garlands  on  its  rim, 
Glowing  like  wine  within  its  brim, 
The  sentiments  from  every  soul 
Shall  make  of  it  a  flowing  bowl. 
Flowing  and  full  it  comes  to  you, 
Flowing  with  love  which  years  renew, 
Love  of  the  Cause  which  made  sublime 
The  conflicts  of  our  fathers '  time ; 
And  may  this  Cause  of  human  kind 
Our  hearts  as  theirs,  forever  bind. 


*Sequoia  Chapter,  D.  A.   R.,   San  Francisco,   January  9,   1905. 


[38] 

In  Memoriam 

Mrs.  Jane  Lathrop  Stanford  and  Mrs.  Ellen  Mason  Colton 
Sequoia  Chapter,  D.  A.  R.* 

True  builders  of  the  state  were  they, 
The  sisters  whom  we  mourn  to-day ; 
Builders  who  laid  foundations  wide 
In  homes,  the  state's  defense  and  pride; 
In  homes  whence  high  ideals  might  flow, 
Quickening  all  life  to  brighter  glow ; 
Builders  who  laid  foundations  deep 
In  works  which  still  their  purpose  keep ; 
In  works  for  public  weal  outwrought, 
Rich  in  the  fruits  of  anxious  thought, 
Rich  in  the  stores  of  wealth  outpoured 
For  human  good,  a  sacred  hoard. 

Such  builders  of  the  state  were  they 
As  were  their  fathers  in  the  day 
When  this  young  nation  made  its  own 
Th'  Atlantic  wilderness  unknown. 
On  houseless  shores  these  women  stood 
And  wrought  in  faith  of  future  good ; 
True  pioneers  with  steady  tread, 
When  sacrifice  was  daily  bread ; 
Worthy  their  names  to  live  beside 
Their  fathers'  who  in  service  died. 
Unto  their  ashes  honor  be 
From  every  child  of  liberty. 
Each  daughter  of  Sequoia  lays 
Upon  their  names  her  meed  of  praise; 
We  reverence  give  unto  their  lives, 
As  toilers,  friends — as  mothers,  wives. 


*San  Francisco,  March  1,  1905. 


[39] 

In  Her  Studio* 

Within  her  shadowed  room,  the  hush 
Of  silence  where  erst  was  heard 
The  sweetness  of  the  welcoming  word ; 
Upon  the  easel  lies  the  brush 

And  hangs  the  palette  bright,  now  dull  and  dry. 
Her  chair  is  empty,  but  the  hands 
Of  skill  have  left  their  glowing  trace 
On  canvas  rich  with  many  a  place 
Interpreted  from  far-off  lands, 

In  tones  like  pastels  from  the  orient  sky. 

Here  pictured  shrines  of  Philae's  shore, 
Here  Karnak  's  sphinx  and  templed  halls ; 
The  smooth-kissed  stones  of  Zion's  walls 
Where  Israel's  sons  their  wails  out-pour; 

And  here  the  sun-smit  tombs  of  Judah's  kings. 
In  cabinets  of  crusted  bowls 
Whose  rose  hues  flush  to  life  the  clay, 
Soft  lights  on  tinted  ivories  play; 
For  hers  was  of  those  cosmic  souls 

Whose  media  lay  in  all  material  things. 


*In    memory    of    Susan    Merrill    Farnham;    read    before    the 
Sequoia  Chapter  of  the  D.   A.   R.,   April   19,   1908. 


[40] 

To  a  Friendly  Critic 

Vision  so  high  that  I  am  dazzled  in  my  sight 
With  searching  for  the  ether's  utmost  star 
That  was  not  meant  to  cast  its  beam  so  far 

As  this  small  earth-bound  range  of  semi-night! 

Half  blind,  rejoicing  in  the  awful  height, 
For  me  no  lesser  sun  can  ever  shine. 
But  oh,  to  reach  that  height  and  make  it  mine ! 

O  God !  the  beauty  of  that  far-off  light ! 

The  glimmered  splendor  of  its  slender  ray 
To  twilight  dim  turns  every  nearer  day; 

When  flashes  its  full  glory  on  my  eyes, 

I  faint  upon  the  floor  of  paradise. 
Better  than  love,  better  than  life,  a  friend 
Who  will  not  let  me  choose  ignoble  end. 


[41] 

Heart  of  a  Rose 
Heart  of  a  Man 

A  flurry  of  snow  on  the  heart  of  a  rose ! 

Ah  me!     Who  knows 
The  chill  that  can  strike  to  the  heart  of  a  rose? 

On  the  heart  of  a  man,  a  cruel  tone! 

Hast  ever  known 
The  thrust  that  can  come  from  a  cruel  tone? 

To  the  heart  of  the  rose  a  sun-ray's  gleam! 

A  smile's  bright  beam 
To  the  heart  of  a  man  is  a  sun-ray's  gleam. 


[42] 

Sent  With  Regrets 

Drink  to  me  with  a  song,  dear  friends, 
When  lips  on  love-notes  dwell, 
And  while  the  wine  with  music  blends 
Till  lovely  bosoms  swell. 

And  when  the  feast  is  at  its  flow 
And  hearts  are  swinging  free, 
Then  drink  with  love-light  all  aglow, 
One  sweet  good  night  to  me. 


[43] 

A  Choice 

An  angel  stooped  down  from  the  hill-side; 

He  was  holding  a  golden  thread 
All  strung  with  the  jewels  of  promise, 

Just  swaying  above  my  head. 

Of  love  there  were  blood  red  rubies, 
And  the  pearls  of  peace  were  there. 

As  I  reached  for  the  gems  in  my  rashness, 
Spake  a  voice,  " Beware,  beware." 

"But  one  canst  thou  choose,"  said  the  angel, 
"Nor  again  shall  I  pass  this  way." 

And  I  clasped  a  single  treasure; 
But  it  burnt  with  a  changeless  ray. 

In  my  hand  I  gathered  this  jewel 
That  blazed  beyond  all  compare; 

And  I  laughed  and  I  wept  as  I  held  it, 
For  the  heart  of  a  friend  lay  there. 


[44] 

Grievance 

One  time  I  grieved;  I  shivered  as  in  fright 
At  cold  words  spoke  by  love's  usurped  right. 
To  me  all  trembling,  spake  the  faithful  Night: 
"Why  grieve  that  Love  in  ardor  spake  so  stern; 
The  purest  flame  may  in  its  white  heat  burn; 
Not  in  your  wrath,  God's  noblest  blessing  spurn." 


[45] 

The  Soul  of  a  Kiss 

Just  the  breath  of  a  kiss  that  passed  and  vanished, 

Like  a  sunbeam  stolen  away, — 
But  the  soul  of  a  kiss  to  lips  that  were  famished 

For  its  life  that  lives  for  aye. 

Somewhere  in  the  reach  of  the  vast  eternal, 

The  soul  of  that  kiss  again 
Will  call  to  me  from  the  heights  supernal 

With  its  solemn,  sweet  Amen. 

And  my  soul  shall  answer  softly, 

Softly  and  low  of  tone; 
No  height  nor  depth  nor  ages 

But  my  soul  shall  know  its  own. 


[46] 

"Men  Kiss  and  Ride  Away" 

While  yet  in  maidens'  throats  the  chords  are  swelling, 

Men  ride  away. 
While  yet  within  their  hearts  the  song  is  welling, 

Men  ride  away. 

From  stirrup-cups  with  hasty  love-foam  rimming, 
From  lips  that  pout  with  kisses  still  a-brimming, 
Men  ride  away. 

With  love-tones  on  the  riders'  lips  still  ringing, 
Their  horses'  hoof -notes  to  the  music  swinging, 
Men  ride  away. 

From  eyes  that  woke  at  love's  too  tender  pleading, 

Men  ride  away. 
From  hearts  where  love  a-faint  lies  dumb  and  bleeding, 

Men  ride  away. 


[47] 

The  Child  in  the  Heart 

There's  a  child  in  my  heart  that  sings  and  sings, 
''0  life  is  love  and  life  is  fair;" 
When  my  heart  has  peace  and  the  spirit  has  wings, 
Then  I  know  that  the  child  is  singing  there. 

When  the  restless,  midnight  vigils  I  keep, 
And  suffer  for  trifles  which  pass  away, 
I  know  that  the  child  in  my  heart  is  asleep. 
Ah  me!    Will  it  wake  another  day? 

When  I  fret  at  the  burden  of  hourly  strife, 
I  know  that  the  child  from  my  soul  has  fled. 
Woe  is  me  for  the  joy  that  is  lost  to  my  life, 
If  ever  the  child  in  my  heart  be  dead ! 


[48] 

w  Love  May  Not  Sing  Again  " 

Love  may  not  sing  again !     Awake,  awake, 

My  heart,  and  one  more  draught  of  rapture  take ; 

Quaff  deep  while  to  your  lip  the  joy  is  pressed ; 
Drink,  drink  before  the  golden  bowl  shall  break. 

It  is  a  god  would  sup  with  you  to-night; 

Lose  not  in  dreams  his  forehead's  visioned  sight. 

Not  vain  upon  your  threshold  poured  his  wine, — 
It  would  to  an  immortal  feast  invite. 

0  Heart  awake!     Too  soon  Love's  song  is  passed; 
Too  soon  his  goblet  to  the  ground  is  cast; 

An  instant  lost,  remains  the  desert  waste, — 
Nor  tears,  nor  blood,  nor  prayers  recall  the  last. 

Awake,  awake!    Love  may  not  sing  again; 
Not  every  day  within  your  spirit's  ken 

You'll  hear  the  wizard  voice  of  Love's  delight: 
O  Soul!     Lift  up  and  cry  "Amen,  Amen." 


[49] 
If  Love  Were  All 

If  love  were  all,  the  way  were  fair. 

Love  reads  its  own  by  surest  signs; 

But  life  slips  in  between  the  lines 
Its  elegies  of  carp  and  care. 

Comes  policy  with  narrowed  eye, 

And  Friendship   masked  in  Duty's  smile; 

Their  sophistries  the  heart  beguile. 
0  Love  be  brave ;  the  world  defy ! 

0  song  of  love — the  sky-lark's  call! 
O  light  that  pales  the  morning  star, 
And  makes  a  heaven  look  dim  and  far! 

O  halcyon  days, — if  love  were  all. 


[50] 
Love  Is  Dead 

A  form  across  my  threshold  lies; 
The  light  has  fled  from  its  dull  eyes; 
Is  that  what  means  this  pulse  of  pain? 
That  Love,  by  its  own  hand,  lies  slain, — 
The  only  way  Love  ever  dies. 


[51] 
Dead  Love 

Of  all  that's  cold  in  Arctic  skies, 
Of  all  that's  dead  in  mother-earth, 
There's  naught  so  cold  as  love  that  dies; 
Nor  dead  as  love  that  once  had  birth. 


[52] 
Truth 

"What  then  is  truth?"     'Twas  Pilate's  jeer, 
This  greatest  question  of  all  time. 
And  centuries  would  pause  to  hear 
The  answer  to  the  Roman's  sneer, 
This  greatest  question  of  all  time. 


[53] 
Truth 

A  jewel  hidden  in  the  depths, 

A  star  adrift  in  space; 
Then  laugh  the  gods  that  mortal  man 

Should  think  to  know  his  place. 


[54] 

Vita  Brevis 

Unless  as  part  of  some  great  thought, 

Why  struggle  on? 

Our  single  roles  are  far  too  short; 

And  life  is  done, 

Work  just  begun. 


[55] 
Love's  Divination 

For  love  alone  must  conquer  doubt; 

Reason  in  vain  may  flout 

Her  cause,  effect  and  sequence  fine; 

Our  hearts  the  voice  must  hear, 

And  only  love's  own  ear 

Truth's  finest  cadence  may  divine. 


[56] 

De  Profundis 

My  Soul! 

Can  this  as  truth  abide, 

That  in  the  light  which  beamed 

From   riven   tomb   and  manger-altar   side 

I  have  but  dreamed? 

Alas! 

Was  there  no  Holy  Child 

In  Bethlehem's  stable  born? 

No  sacrifice  on  Calvary's  dark  hillside, 

Nor  Easter  morn? 

Awake ! 

God  of  our  fathers,  speak; 

Savior  long-promised,  come! 

Where  shall  we  find  the  truth  our  spirits  seek, 

If  thou  art  dumb? 

Behold! 

Nature  flows  on  apace, 

Unchanged   and  undisturbed; 

Science  reveals  each  year  a  nobler  grace; 

From  Thee,  no  word. 

A-f  aint ! 

We  stagger  towards  the  end; 

A  close-locked  door  we  meet; 

''Father,"  we  call  Thee,  but  we  find  no  friend. 

0  wandering  feet! 

Woe !     Woe ! 

Passed  is  the  faith  of  yore; 

Our  graves  yawn  very  nigh; 

And  like  the  millions  who  have  loved  before, 

We  only  die. 


[57] 

The  Gift 

Because  I  cannot  speak  the  word 

The  greatest  human  lips  have  known; 

Because  my   ear   may  not  have  heard 
The  mightiest  of  God's  thunder-tone; 

Because  I  could  not  probe  the  heart 

To  depths  which  God  alone  should  see, 

I  have  despised  the  humbler  part 
With  which  the  Master  trusted  me. 

0   bastard  gifts  of  unknown  birth! 

0  soul  that  cannot  read  the  skies! 
Avaunt  thy  offerings,   little  worth! 

Deaf  ears  accursed  and  blinded  eyes! 


[58] 

Sleep 

To  sleep !     To  float  upon  a  dreamless  wave ! 
To  feel  the  wind-swept  senses  softly  close 
Their  portals  from  the  currents  of  the  day! 
Delicious  languor  of  the  drooping  lids! 
A  healing  darkness  on  the  aching  eyes, 
When  sounds  become  but  dying  cadences 
Which  murmur  into  wooing  silences; 
The  soft  sweet  wonder  of  forgetfulness 
That  creeps  with  its  narcotic  on  each  nerve: 
Then  slips  the  soul  her  anchor  from  all  thought; 
On  each  receding  tide  of  consciousness, 
She  drifts  away  upon  oblivion's  sea, 
Far  out  to  calm  upon  the  ocean's  night. 


[59] 
Peace 

Peace!     Is  it  the  dull 

Low  ache  that  follows  in  the  lull 

Of  pain?    Is  it  the  sob 

Of  waning  senses  when  the  startled  throb 

Of  passion's  pulse  has  passed?    Is  it  the  glow 

Of  sorrow's  aftermath?     Or  yet  the  slow 

Benumbing  torpor  of  too  satisfied  desire? 

Or  is  it  hearth-stone  vesper  by  the  fire? 

Is  it  the  Autumn  fruitage,  or  the  thrill 
Of  promise  in  the  opening  bud  of  Spring? 
Is  it  the  folded  or  the  spreading  wing? 
Or  is  it  yet  the  pliant  will 
To  suffer  and  be  still? 

Nay,  it  is  none  of  these,  I  know. 

What  is  it  thus  I  seek,  turned  to  and  fro? 

It  flees  me  like  the  holy  grail 

That  vanished  over  hill  and  mere  and  vale. 

And  faint  as  hymning  of  the  angel  forms  which  bore 

That   jewel-cup    forever   on  before, 

There  comes  a  voice:     ''Let  wandering  cease; 

In  thine  own  place,  thy  soul  shall  find  its  peace." 


[60] 

The  "Reproaches" 

"0,  my  people!  why  my  sorrow  hanging  on  the  bitter 

tree? 
Why  for  all  the  gain  I  wrought  ye,  gave  ye  but  such 

pain  to  me? 

"  Though  I  flayed  the  pride  of  Egypt,  scourged  ye  me 

with  cruel  rod; 
Though  I  slew  her  first-born  for  thee,  fell  my  blood 

on  Calvary's  sod; 

"For  the  fiery  pillars  standing  behind  ye  at  Egypt's 

sea, 
Pillar  of  the  flagellation,  0,  my  children !  gave  ye  me ; 

"Led  I  ye  from  your  tormentors,  gave  ye  me  unto  my 

foe; 
Though   I   gave   ye  mighty  sceptre,   crown   of  thorns 

mocked  my  great  woe; 

"Though   in   deserts  with   sweet   fountains   and   white 

manna  ye  I  fed, 
Vinegar  unto  my  thirst  ye  gave  when  faintness  bowed 

my  head." 


[61] 

Easter 

O  soul,  be  still!     Scourge  not  thyself  with  doubt. 

Tear  not  thy  little  life  about 

With  fever  of  a  baffling  quest 

For  what  the  angels  seek,  thou  temporary  guest. 

Even  as  thou,  the  primal  man  was  dumb 
When  from  dead  husks  he  saw  new  beauty  come, 
And  when  from  nerveless  grubby  things, 
The  while  he  looked,  bright  crumpled  wings 
Burst  forth  in  haste  to  meet  the  sun.     Not  thou 
To-day  hast  more  with  thy  demanding  brow 
Of  this  earth-mystery  of  life  from  death, — 
This  master-question  of  creation's  breath, 
When  out  of  seeming  death  unfold 
New  lives  more  fair  than  were  the  old. 

Go  read  the  life-bloom  scattered  wide 

On  hill  and  field  at  Easter-tide. 

From  death  comes  life,  the  wonder-promise  spread 

For  man  before  he  had  his  stranger-being  read. 

And  when  my  heart  is  with  the  silent  band, 
And  thou  for  mine  shalt  lift  another  hand, 
Thou '11  see  new  roses  from  each  winter  dead 
In  garlands  wreathed  about  some  maiden's  head, 
Their  petals  tinted  from  the  petals  shed. 

Each  Spring-time  answers  to  thy  riddle-making  strife, 
"Recurrent  resurrection  is  eternal  life." 


[62] 

The  Call 

And  God  said  "Come";  and  all 

The  rose  leaves  fell  to  earth, 
And  sorrow's  smothering  pall 

Hushed  every  sound  of  mirth; 

Then  the  stars  went  out  by  night, 
And  the  sun  grew  dim  by  day, 

For  the  souls  that  I  loved,  from  my  sight 
Had  fled  away  and  away. 

In  the  realm  where  I  may  not  follow — 
Though  I  stand  on  the  border  land — 

They're  safe  in  the  sacred  hollow 
Of  His  dear  overshadowing  hand. 

But  as  they  passed  on  they  threw  me 
A  smile  so  aglow  with  heaven's  light, 

That  from  my  despair  it  might  woo  me 
And  glorify  all  my  night. 

Though  I   walk  through  strange  dark  places 
While  I  wait  for  the  coming  day, 

I  know  that  their  radiant  faces 
Are  not  so  far  away, 

For  I  feel  the  effulgent  glory 

Of  that  smile  when  I  watch  in  the  night, 
Like  a  benison  pure  and  holy 

Turning  all  my  gloom  to  light. 


[63] 
Transition 

O  lay  again  thy  hand  in  mine, 
The  day  is  done; 

0  say   again   all  joys   divine 
And  earthly  from  my  eyelids  shine. 

The  sands  are  run. 

1  see  the  gleam  of  some  far  land 

Where  bright  ones  dwell; 
Like   presence   of   that   angel-band, 
I  hear  thy  voice  and  feel  thy  hand. 

Dear  heart,  farewell. 

Love  will  not  die  but  grow  more  fair 

When  earth  is  gone; 
As  I  pass  hence,  I  know  not  where, 
Speak  on  dear  voice  through  ambient  air 
And  be  one  tone  familiar  there. 

Dear  voice,  speak  on. 


[64] 

Stabat  Mater 

0  Thou  Mournful  Mother,  standing  by  the  cross  with 

eyes  uplift 
Where  thy  stricken    Son    was    hanging    when  doubt's 

sword  thine  own  heart  rift! 

Vain  man's  cry  of  Stabat    Mater,    wailing    down    the 

mournful  years, 
To   rehearse  thy  living   anguish   and   the  meaning  of 

thy  tears; 

If  on  earth  one  knew  thy  woe,  some  mother  like  thy 
self  'twould  be, 

Wrung  by  pangs  for  which  'twere  vain  to  seek  words' 
idle  pageantry. 

Such  with  pain  transfixed  stand   as  thou  beside  the 

struggling  clay, 
Dumb  and  lifting  helpless  hands  in  heritage  of  Eden's 

day. 

And  to  these  thou  showest  near    the    might    of    thy 

stupendous  pain — 
Woe  supremest  save  the  cry  that  rent  the  temple's  veil 

in  twain. 

Such  alone  the  fiery  baptism  which  may  give  thy  grief 

to  know, 
Thou  who   art  the    ideal    Mother    sacred    to     earth's 

holiest  woe. 

Lovely  type  of  purest    sorrow!     Solitude    thy  fitting 

shrine, 
For  the  giddy  world  has  nothing  for  an  anguish  such 

as  thine. 


65  ] 


And  thy  face  with  woe  transfigured  tells  from  altars 

grand  or  rude, 
How    a    mother's    pain    may    be    a    soul's    sublime 

beatitude. 


[66] 

A  Good  Friday  Devotion 

(Written  during  service,  April,  1909.) 

Lo,  even  now,  the  sky's  far  rim, 

By  seraphs  flecked  and  full  of  song; 
Darkness  and  silence  were  not  long; 

The  end  of  woe  has  come  for  Him. 

O  Mother!    Look  unto  the  dawn; 

Draw  out  the  sword  that  pierced  thy  heart; 

He  has  fulfilled  the  cruel  part; 
Forever  more   'tis  Easter  Morn. 


[67] 

.,f 

The  Mater  Pia 

Softly  the  fading  moon  dies  in  the  sky; 
Softly  sigh  night  winds  their  sweet  lullaby; 
Star-eyes  of  angels  are  watching  with  me, — 
Lullaby,  lullaby,  God  is  with  thee. 

O  Babe,  a  tear-drop  in  thy  sleep ! 

0  Israel's  wayward,  lagging  feet! 
Why  linger  thy  Messiah  to  greet? 

Rachel,  do  mothers  always  weep? 

What  mean  this  transport  and  this  pain? 
God  of  my  sires,  across  my  sight 
A  vision  drifts  of  storm  and  light, — 

A  flaming  crown,  a  victim  slain. 

Sleep  on,  sweet  Babe;  awhile  to  me 
Is  given  to  hush  thy  human  cry; 

1  worship  with  the  lullaby, 
And  give  the  reverent  breast  to  thee. 

Softly  the  fading  moon  dies  in  the  sky; 
Softly  sigh  night  winds  their  sweet  lullaby ; 
Star-eyes  of  angels  are  watching  with  me, — 
Lullaby,  lullaby,  God  is  with  thee. 


[70] 

Farther  Shores 

Their  ships  sailed  on — sailed  on;  was  left 

My  bark  to  struggle  with  the  storm; 
And  of  their  beckoning  smiles  bereft, 

I  sat  till  twilight  wrapped  my  form. 
And  still  I  sail  and  sail   'mid  stress 

Of  seas  and  change  of  day  and  night; 
Though  tossed  upon  the  waves'  distress, 

Somehow  I  glide  into  the  light. 

I  know  not  how  the  skies  grow  clear, 

Nor  do  I  see  the  guiding  hand, 
As   'midst  the  changing  floods  I  steer, 

My  eyes  upon  a  distant  band 
Of  light  that  shows  a  nearing  shore. 

I  think  it  is  the  gleam  of  day, 
Where  they  await  me  evermore 

Whose  ships  sailed  on  and  far  away. 


71 


In  Bondage 

Better  than  I  thou  Lord  dost  know 
The  heart  beneath  this  crust  of  earth, 
The  trammels  of  the  fleshly  birth, 
The  clay  which  crowds  and  binds  us  so. 

This  strong-weak  body  from  my  soul 
Importunate   its   will   demands; 
And  scarce  the  service  of  my  hands 
Can  its  infirmities  control. 

Thou  knowest  all  the  winged  thought 
Which  panting,  bound,  would  fly  to  Thee. 
Accept  the  worship  that  would  be, 
And  which  in  washing,  still  is  wrought. 


[72] 

The  Waiting  Note* 

In  the  full  celestial  chorus 

Lacks  one  strain  that  waits  for  me, 
Note  of  that  immortal  measure 

From   earth's   death-note  ever   free. 
May  I  with  my  heart's  own  spirit 

Catch  that  harmony  divine; 
Strike  the  chord  with  tone  unerring, 

Knowing  it  as  only  mine. 

Mine  with  not  a  broken  cadence; 

Mine  for  God's  eternal  chime, 
Keyed  to  heavenly  diapason 

When  the  worlds  He  swung  in  time; 
In  majestic  majors  swelling, 

Mine  where  men  and  angels  meet, 
And  the  spheres  in  grand  crescendo 

Lay  their  worship  at  His  feet. 


*Dedicated  to  President  Susan  L.  Mills  of  Mills  College  and 
sung  by  the  surpliced  choir  of  young  lady  students  at  the 
celebration  of  her  eighty-fifth  birthday. 


[73] 

A  Rustic  Bridge 

A  rustic  bridge;  the  copse  at  dawn 
Adrip  with  sweetness  of  the  night; 
From  out  the  reaches  of  the  lawn, 
A  lark  rose  up  beyond  my  sight. 
The  air  was  quivering  with  his  song's  wild  lay 
That  shook  and  sparkled  in  the  sunbeam's  ray. 


I  hear  across  the  chasmed  years 
The  buoyance  of  that  song  to-day; 
Hast  thou  the  note  dispelling  tears, 
To  leave  when  thou  art  far  away? 

Yea  soul,  love's  word  can  thrill  from  planets  far; 

God's  love  can  ring  from  star  to  utmost  star. 


[74] 
Vespers 

Though  I  be  old,  alone,  and  dying  fast, 
Weary  of  limb,  infirm  of  step  and  slow, 
Before  my  darkened  eyes  fair  visions  go: 

Just  now  I  heard  the  angels  as  they  passed. 

Thou  eager  Soul,  canst  bear  with  lagging  Death 
For  yet  awhile,  as  Day  endures  the  Night? 
Keep  clear  thy  vision  for  the  inner  sight, 

And  our  new  form  shall  have  immortal  breath. 

I  feel  thee  flutter  with  the  life  to  be, 

0  Soul,  as  thou  would 'st    try    thy    fledging  wings. 

Be  still!     Hush  thou  thine  ear  for  farther  things! 
Not  long  this  fading  form  will  hinder  thee. 


[75] 
L' Envoi 

Deep  heart  of  love  where  never  sound  is  heard, 
Beneath  the  wash  and  wave  of  any  word, 
From  out  our  vision  shut  the  earthly  day 
And  we  shall  see  God's  ocean  gardens  sway, — 

Fair  lives  cut  off  in  promise  of  their  flower; 

Beauty  in  bud;  manhood  despoiled  of  power; 
And  there,  into  immortal  beauty  grown, 
Loves  which  on  earth  were  but  in  shadow  thrown. 


Songs  of  the  Pacific 


[From  "Francisco,  Reina  and  Other  Poems 
A.  M.  Robertson,  San  Francisco 
1912] 


[79] 

California's  Hymn 

Before  us  lie  the  seas  which  bring  the  east  unto  the  west ; 

The  oriental  Sphinx  has  bared  the  secrets  of  her  breast, 

And  calls  on  us  for  answer  to  her  riddles  all  unguessed 

Since  stars  went  rolling  on. 

Half -blinded  with  the  gold  dust  from  our  smitten  moun 
tain  coves, 

For  years  we  wandered  dreaming  in  our  fig  and  orange 
groves, 

While  the   placers   of  our  wheat  fields   gleamed   with 
golden  treasure-troves, 

And  we  went  gaily  on. 

Garden- valley ed  are   our  hillsides  —  softest   hand   that 

gloves  the  steel  — 
But  the  will  is  rock  beneath  them  for  our  country's 

righteous  weal; 
Our  heritage  of  birthright  we  will  guard  with  deathless 

zeal, 

As  the  peoples  go  marching  on. 

For  our  children's  souls  shall  answer  with  a  spark  of 

holy  fire 

When  smitten  on  the  anvil  of  a  pure  and  bold  desire, 
Till  the  blows  become  the  key-note  of  the  world's  advanc 
ing  choir, 

As  the  future  goes  marching  on. 


[80] 

The  California  Eschscholtzia 

The  orange  hue  of  the  rainbow 

Is  not  so  deep  as  thine ; 
More  rich  than  a  golden  goblet 

Influshing  with  sun-lit  wine. 

On  its  calyx  of  pink  thy  corolla 
Catches  sheen  from  the  passing  sun, 

As  if  powder  of  pearls  were  dusted 
And  gleamed  thy  soft  gold  upon. 

Of  a  truth,  the  dainty  fay-maidens 
Must  have  crimped  thine  edge  so  thin 

Alike  to  some  fairyland  pattern, 
On  thy  stamen  for  golden  pin. 

Deep  down  in  the  cup  of  thy  petals 
One  spot  of  a  purple  stain, 

Where  the  elves  forgot  in  their  revels 
The  last  bright  drop  to  drain. 

As  the  scintillant  dust  of  amber 
In  the  sun  does  thy  pollen  shine ; 

Such  powder  Queen  Mab  might  covet 
To  burnish  her  locks  divine. 

At  dusk  thou  modestly  closest 
Thy  petals  with  jealous  fold; 

All  night  thou  cosily  sleepest 
In  a  tent  of  the  cloth  of  gold. 


[81] 

A  Stanford  Hymn* 

Against  the  night,  the  skies  disclose 
Their  beauty  shadow-fraught ; 

From  out  the  night,  a  star  arose; 
Through  sorrow,  gleamed  a  thought. 

But  for  the  grief  which  sat  by  death, 
And  dreamed  its  dream  alone, 

Our  Alma  ne'er  had  felt  God's  breath 
Turning  to  life  the  stone, — 

God's  breath  of  love,  to  purpose  warm 

Transmuting  human  loss ; 
Revealing  life's  ideal  form 

To  those  beneath  the  cross. 

0  Stanford,  look  unto  the  height! 

Athene-like,  thy  youth ! 
Led  by  thy  star,  seek  thou  thy  might 

In  time's  advancing  truth! 


*Written    for    the    Stanford    Annual,    THE    QUAD,    1904. 


[82] 

A  Consecration  for  a  Non-Sectarian 
Church* 

Before  this  new-made  altar,  Lord, 

Passions  and  cavilings  we  lay, 

All  prejudices  which  would  stay 

Our  spirits  from  a  sweet  accord 

With  love, — that  love  which  wrought  man's  good, 

Not  in  the  controversial  creeds, 

But  shone,  by  serving  daily  needs, 

Divine  in  human  brotherhood. 

O  sweet  home-love !    This  love  divine, 
Interpreting  with  sorrow's  art, 
How  hast  thou,  on  a  broken  heart, 
Upreared  the  spirit's  sacred  shrine, 
That  other  souls  may  reach  the  height 
Of  temples  builded  without  hand, 
Wherein  eternal  law  shall  stand 
And  God  himself  shall  be  the  light. 


*At   the   dedication   of  the   Memorial   Church,    Stanford 
University,  January  25,  1903. 


[83] 

The  Song  of  the  Colorado  River* 

To  my  own  again  in  the  Salton  Sea, 

As  the  Indians  sagas  of  old  have  said, 
When  times  and  a  time  of  my  exile  shall  be, 

I  will  leap  again  from  my  rock-bound  bed. 

For  ages  that  deep  dry  sea  was  mine, 

For  me  she  unbarred  her  ocean  gates ; 
And  forever  my  sea  shells  and  corallines  shine 

On  her  brow,  uncrowned  by  the  envious  fates. 

How  that  land  was  fair  when  I  lay  on  her  breast 
With  verbenas  aflame  and  green  with  the  palms ! 

Ten  thousand  ages  of  beauty  and  rest 

In  the  glow  of  her  bloom  and  her  passionate  charms ! 

But  a  jealous  Titan  earthward  bent, 

And  the  rocks  he  smote  both  far  and  wide ; 

I  slipped  from  her  arms  through  the  mountain  rent; 
Ah,  then  on  her  forehead  the  garlands  died. 

For  a3ons  she  lay  with  her  sands  unsought; 

I  was  chafing  and  bound  in  my  narrow  bed ; 
But  the  times  and  a  time  their  days  have  wrought, 

And  I  come  again  as  the  sagas  have  said. 

Though  again  I  be  bound  I  will  come  from  afar, 
To  the  sea  and  the  land  of  my  heart's  desire; 

My  gates  of  rock  I  will  thrust  ajar, 

For  the  Indian  sagas  are  written  in  fire. 


"The  Indians  of  the  South  have  a  tradition  that  the 
Colorado  River  first  went  through  the  Indio  basin  to  the  Gulf, 
and  that  the  miles  of  desert  which  now  lie  so  far  below  the 
sea  level  were  lake,  and  that  the  whole  country  was  most  fertile 
and  had  a  mild  climate.  They  also  have  a  legend  that  the 
river  will  surely  return  to  its  old  bed  from  which  it  was  turned 
by  a  comparatively  recent  convulsion  of  nature.  When  the 
late  break  in  the  banks  of  the  Colorado  made  the  Salton  Sea, 
there  was  great  rejoicing  among  them,  since,  according  to  the 
legend,  the  return  presaged  great  benefit  to  the  natives. 


[84] 

The  Spirit  of  the  Desert 

An  Indian  rides  across  the  plain ; 

And  crushed  beneath  his  pony's  tread 
The  alkali's  white  crystals  shine; 

Red  wheels  the  sun  high  overhead. 

Stolid  of  face  and  sombre-eyed; 

His  mustang 's  bridle  trails  aground ; 
The  sullen  lassitude  of  heat, 

Of  smothering  light,  enfolds  them  round. 

Hot  hazes  rise ;  in  shimmering  veil, 
The  panting  breath  of  parched  earth, 

Their  silhouette  grows  dim;  a  speck 
They  fade  into  the  desert-dearth. 


[85] 

San  Francisco  Bay 

Grandest  bay!  upon  whose  bosom  navies  of  the  world 

might  rest, 
Gently  boldest  thou  a  mirror  to  the  white  gull's  snowy 

breast, 

And  thy  deep   arterial  currents,   drawn   from  ocean's 

throbbing  heart, 
Bear  as  light  the  iron  monster  or  the  white  skiff  to  thy 

mart ; 

Rainbows   quiver    'neath   thy   surface;    heaven    repeats 

itself  below ; 
As  a  spirit  to  a  substance,  softer  there  its  colors  glow. 

Leagues  to  northward,  leagues  to  southward,  wanders 

thy  adventurous  strand, 
And  thy  sinuous  arms  extending  gather  wealth  from  all 

the  land; 

Wide  thy  Golden  Gate  stands  open  to  all  nations  of  the 

world ; 
Free  between  its  stately  portals  all  flags  are  in  peace 

unfurled. 

Beauteous  Gate,  when  loitering  sunset  covers  thee  with 

burnished  gold ! 
Mighty  Gate,  when  surging  ocean  thy  strong  cliffs  alone 

withhold ! 

Treach'rous  Gate,  deceiving  many  with  a  name  most  fair 

to  see! 
Blessed  Gate,  where  millions  find  the  golden  boon  of 

liberty ! 


[86] 
La  Casa  Grande 

On  the  Grila  's  sun-burnt  plain 
Where  naught  but  the  mesquit  grows, 
And  the  fevered  breath  of  the  sullen  simoon 
From  off  the  desert  blows; 

Where  the  earth's  dry  lips  are  athirst 
And  the  Gila  monsters  crawl, 
Stands  a  house  of  adobe  alone  and  despoiled 
By  the  years  which  scatter  all. 

The  Indian  as  wrinkled  and  sere 
As  the  leaf  that  rustles  aground, 
Has  no  legend-torch  its  grey  depth  to  light, 
And  echo  can  find  no  sound. 

No  house  of  its  kin  on  the  plain; 
Life  refuses  its  brotherhood  now; 
Even  Death  has  laid  a  reluctant  hand 
On  La  Casa  Grande 's  brow. 


[87] 

The  Pacific 

The  monarch  of  waters!  the  giant  Pacific! 

How  dwells  he  forever  in  kingly  estate ! 
One  mighty  hand  grasping  the  Orient  hoary, 

The  other  wide-spanning  the  Golden  Gate! 
Far  beyond  the  white  cliffs  of  Thor  and  of  Odin, 

The  centuries '  snows  are  a  crown  for  his  head ; 
Borealis,  his  torch-bearer,  lights  his  state  chambers, 

And  the  icebergs  their  flame-tinted  canopies  spread. 

To  his  warm  heart  he  presses  his  bride  with  her  graces, 
Low  responses  she  gives  through  her  forests'   deep 

chimes 
To  his  wooing,  in  softest  tide-cadences  uttered, 

While  their  love-tale  the  minstrel  wind  bears  to  all 

climes. 
High  lifts  she  aloft  the  gigantic  Sequoia, 

To  catch  on  her  brow  the  smile  of  his  face ; 
And  the  moons  that  are  whitest  and  the  suns  that  are 

clearest 
For  ages  have  looked  on  their  loving  embrace. 

California,  bride  of  the  princely  Pacific ! 

All  proudly  we  gaze  on  the  stores  that  are  thine; 
Not  the  gold  that  was  torn  from  thy  breast  with  thy 

crying, 
But  a  greater   boon   ask  from  thy   treasures'   deep 

mine — 

E'en  a  throb  from  thy  life  when  thy  soul  was  awaking, 
When  the  darkness  was  smitten  ere  dawned  had  the 

day; 
When  the  light  of  the  cross    with    the    sabre's  flash 

mingled, 
And  the  chaos  of  change  in  thy  morn  rolled  away. 


[88] 

The  Yukon's  Song  of  the  Gold 

Lo!     We  are  the  waters  that  come  from  afar, 
From  the  heart  of  the  earth  so  young,  so  old, 
Whose  life-blood  flows  from  the  granite  and  spar, — 
The  heart  that  lies  under  the  northern  star; 
And  we  bring  you  the  song  of  the  ancient  gold, 
The  waters'  song  of  the  gold. 

In  the  cavern-retorts  of  the  master-smith  Time, 
It  seethed  in  the  heat  and  crumbled  in  cold; 
When  the  forests  uplifted  their  giant  prime 
And  the  saurians  trailed  through  the  ooze  and  slime, 
He  still  was  annealing  the  molten  gold, 
The  unsunned  and  the  nameless  gold. 

Ere  Thor  was  a  thought  or  Odin  spoke, 
The  gleaming  quartz  into  billows  rolled; 
Then  eternal  silence  in  echoes  awoke, 
When  the  billows  uplifted  to  crags  and  broke 
In  the  terrible  song  of  the  crashing  gold, 
The  song  of  the  grinding  gold. 

We  scraped  it  down  with  the  glaciers'  might 
From  cranny  and  crevice  of  mountain  fold; 
When  the  altar-flame  of  Auroral  light 
To  a  temple  had  turned  the  Arctic  night, 
Then  the  ether  throbbed  with  our  chant  of  the  gold, 
The  psalm  of  our  votive  gold. 

In  the  ice-dark  caves  our  soul  was  stirred 
As  men  called  for  our  help  in  the  canon's  hold; 
Deep  under  the  glaciers  our  name  we  heard, 
In  the  secret  springs  we  leaped  at  the  word; 
We  shouted  and  sung  the  wild  song  of  the  gold, 
The  song  of  our  waiting  gold. 


89 


From  the  benches'  wash  in  the  river-sluice 
A  primitive  man  scooped  the  shining  mould; 
But  our  pebbles  have  taught  you  the  riffles'  use; 
Rejoicing,  we  make  you  a  play-day  truce 
To  hunt  from  your  sluice-box  toys  the  gold, 
Your  trifle  of  captured  gold. 

Our  strength  we  chain  to  their  narrow  bound, 
But  we  scoff  when  you  say  we  are  bought  and  sold; 
With  a  plunge  and  a  flash,  far  below  we  are  found 
In  the  river  our  home;  and  the  hills  resound 
With  our  fetterless  song  while  you  sweep  up  the  gold, 
While  you  gloat  on  the  virgin  gold. 

When  the  pick  on  the  river's  bank  is  still 
And  men  come  not  to  the  snow-lapped  wold, 
Then  our  song  that  was  loosed  at  the  primal  thrill 
Of  chaos  pulsed  with  the  infinite  Will, 
Shall  ring  as  at  first  through  cafions  of  gold, 
The  canons  of  unsought  gold. 


[90] 

The  Malamute  Dog  of  Alaska 

Thou,  ruler  and  slave  of  the  frozen  plain! 
Thou,  Malamute  dog  with  the  voice  of  pain ! 
Is  it  thine  or  a  spirit's,  that  demon  howl, 
That  snap  and  snarl,  and  whimpering  growl 
Which  chills  like  the  curse  of  the  slain? 

Thou  wolf -faced  thing  with  the  jaws  of  steel 
And  the  fangs  that  the  blood-red  lips  reveal; 
With  appealing  eyes  which  seem  to  entreat; 
With  thy  thieving  heart,  and  thy  patient  feet 
For  the  trail  where  the  snows  congeal! 

Thou  wonder  of  blended  good  and  ill! 
What  gives  to  thy  tones  that  human  thrill? 
For  war  on  the  gods,  condemned  to  thy  form 
Do  vikings  and  dwarfs  in  the  Arctic  storm 
Purgatorial  penance  fulfill? 

Strange  creature!    Thy  cry  on  the  northern  night 
Wails  forth  beneath  the  Auroral  light, 
As  if  earth  heard  again,  the  wild  shriek  of  her  woe 
When  Odin's  life-blood  stained  the  halls  of  snow, 
The  snow-halls  on  Valhalla's  height. 


On  the  Spanish  Missions 
in  California 


I  Selections  from"  A  California  Pilgrimage": 

Samuel  Carson  &  Co.,  San  Francisco 

1884] 


[90] 

The  Malamute  Dog  of  Alaska 

Thou,  ruler  and  slave  of  the  frozen  plain! 
Thou,  Malamute  dog  with  the  voice  of  pain ! 
Is  it  thine  or  a  spirit's,  that  demon  howl, 
That  snap  and  snarl,  and  whimpering  growl 
Which  chills  like  the  curse  of  the  slain? 

Thou  wolf -faced  thing  with  the  jaws  of  steel 
And  the  fangs  that  the  blood-red  lips  reveal; 
With  appealing  eyes  which  seem  to  entreat; 
With  thy  thieving  heart,  and  thy  patient  feet 
For  the  trail  where  the  snows  congeal! 

Thou  wonder  of  blended  good  and  ill! 
What  gives  to  thy  tones  that  human  thrill? 
For  war  on  the  gods,  condemned  to  thy  form 
Do  vikings  and  dwarfs  in  the  Arctic  storm 
Purgatorial  penance  fulfill? 

Strange  creature!    Thy  cry  on  the  northern  night 
Wails  forth  beneath  the  Auroral  light, 
As  if  earth  heard  again  the  wild  shriek  of  her  woe 
When  Odin's  life-blood  stained  the  halls  of  snow, 
The  snow-halls  on  Valhalla's  height. 


On  the  Spanish  Missions 
in  California 


[  Selections  from  "A  California  Pilgrimage  " : 

Samuel  Carson  &  Co.,  San  Francisco 

1884] 


/  questioned  thus  with  the  spirit: 

"0,  how  can  I  do  this  thing? 
The  pattern  is  long  and  hard,"  I  said, 

"My  thought  but  a  slender  string." 

"0,  faithless  child,"  quoth  the  spirit, 
"Begin  but  to  weave,  nor  doubt; 

While  the  other  end  of  the  skein  we  hold, 
How  can  the  thread  give  out?" 


[93] 
Proem 

Tells  the  cumbrous  page  historic  how  the  Missions  rose 

and  fell, 
Founded  by  the  Frays  Franciscan — long  their  souls  in 

heaven  dwell ! 

How    in    wretched    caravels    the    padres    came    from 

Mejico, 
Churchly  gifts  and  treasures    bearing    o'er  the    long 

waves  dipping  slow; 

How  when  'midst  the  dreary  voyage  storms  hissed  o'er 

the  blackened   sea, 
Calm    their    0    Regina    mingled    with    that    fearful 

minstrelsy. 

Fair  as  vale  of  Andalusia  to  their  ocean-weary  eyes, 
California  spread  her  beauties   'neath  a  tent  of  cloud 
less  skies. 

Eich   as   Spain's   oft-chanted   vecfas    lay    her    valleys 

undefiled, 
And  recalled  their  own  Nevadas,  white  Sierras  far  and 

wild. 

To  them  seemed  the  mountain  torrents,  rushing  down 

the  canons  deep, 
As  loved  Tagus  or  as  Darro    from    Granada's  rugged 

steep. 


[94] 

San  Diego 

In  the  College  San  Fernando,  in  the  State  of  Mejico, 
Hangs  a  canvas  dim  with  shadows  thrown  a  century 
ago; 

From  it  looks  a  monk  Franciscan,  in  his  order's  robe 

complete, 
Cowled  serge  and  hempen  girdle  falling  to  his  sandaled 

feet; 

In  his  hand   he   holds    a  stone  with  which  to  beat  his 

naked  breast; 
Near  him  lie  a  skull  and  scourge,  and  stands  the  chalice 

ever  blessed; 

Scintillant  'neath  glowing  faith,  burns  zeal  as  deathless 

and  as  bright 
As  the  fire  on  Aztec  temples  through  a  fervid  tropic 

night : 

Such  was    Padre    Serra    preaching,    as  they  say  who 

knew  him  well, 
Fray  Junipero  whose  labors  now  but  ruined  altars  tell. 

Serra  thence  all  blindly  wandered,  dreaming  not  the 

stores  of  fate, 
O'er  the  place  which  should  be  later  by  his  brothers 

consecrate ; 

O'er  the   land   where   Coronado   and   De   Nic,a   sought 

in  vain 
For  the  seven-storied  city  —  the  Quivira  of  the  plain, 


95 


Where  the  marigolds  upspringing  o  'er  the  hasty  graves 

should  tell, 
By  a  miracle  of  verdure,  where  the  faithful  friars  fell; 

Where  procession  of    the    murdered    should  pace  o'er 

the  blood-stained  sand, 
Each    one    bearing    through    night's    darkness    torch 

flamboyant   in  his  hand, 

While  before  them  cross  majestic,  borne  by  unseen  ones 

along, 
Should  cast  such  unearthly  radiance  on  the  chanting 

white-robed  throng, 

They  should  seem  as  flaming  spirits,  purging  desecrated 

ground 
With  their  versicles  and  incense,  broken  altars  round 

and  round; 

Till  these  pagans,  sorely  frighted  at  the  phantom  night 

by  night, 
Should  flee  hasty  leagues  far  southward  from  the  weird 

avenging  sight. 

Hence  out-straying  from  his  course  to  borders  of  the 
desert-land, 

Where  the  cacti  and  mesquit  yet  mingle  with  the  drift 
ing  sand; 

Where  shrink  from  the  dry  lakes  sand-choked,  e'en  the 

bitter  streams  away, 
And  dead  craters,  with  their  burnt  lips,  lap  the  red 

sun's  blasting  ray; 


96 


Still   they   toiled   the   hot   earth   o'er,   where   sea-shells 

gleamed  on  waves  of  sand; 
Swept  o'er  them  the  dread  sirocco  'neath  the  fierce  light 

of  that  land. 

Then  with  guile  a  strange  mirage  raised  fevered  moun 
tains  in  their  sight; 

Rose  such  walls  as  once  on  Patmos  lay  against  supernal 
light; 

Sprung  tall  minarets  from  temples  tipped  with  balls  of 

golden  glow, 
Casting   spires   of  waving  shadow  on   the  bird-flecked 

lakes  below. 

Toiled  they  on  through  Arizuma,  land  as  wondrous 
winter  fair ; 

But  the  spring-time's  life  had  withered  and  the  sum 
mer  death  was  there. 

Onward,   though   the   red   simoon   still  sullen   o'er  the 

white  dunes  roll; 
Spake  the  soldiers,  "God  in  heaven!  hath  this  hideous 

place  a  soul?" 

Then  quoth  Serra,  "Lo!  the  answer,"  pointing  where 

their  eager  eyes 
Saw  from  whorl  of  spiked    cactus,    tall   white  tree    of 

blossoms  rise.* 


*The  Yucca,   or  Spanish  Bayonet. 


97 


Shaft,  as  marble  of  Carrara — graved  as  with  a  sculp 
tor's  care; 

Carven  tower  of  polished  petals,  graced  with  stamens 
waxen  fair. 

Spake  he,  "Children,  let  your  lives  be  e'en  thus  rich 

in  holy  deeds, 
Blooming  in  the  fiery  desert  which  would  stifle  common 

weeds. ' ' 

Thus  encouraged,  toiled  they  onward,  till  from  height 

of  sea-girt  shore, 
Saw  they  ship  masts  upward  pointing,  telling  their  long 

journey  o'er; 

For  the  rude  ships  from  La  Paz,  which  sought  Vis- 
caino's  Monterey, 

Lay  with  sailors  sick  or  dead  in  San  Diego's  close- 
locked  bay. 

Three  moons  Serra's  friends  had  waited  for  his  band 

they  mourned  as  dead, 
Roaming    o'er    the    coast    and    mesa    where    Spring's 

blazonry   was   spread — 

Turquoise  stars  and  stars  of  sapphire  laid  she  on  her 

burnished  green, 
Sweetly  decking,  fitly  matching  lawns  of  every  hue  and 

sheen ; 

Honeysuckle's     conscious    sweetness — white     petunia's 

graceful  cup, 
Blue-eyed,  meek  forget-me-nots  that  never  for  a  maid 

looked  up. 


[98 


The  ambitious  pigmy  thistles  —  tiny  heads  with  plumed 

hair — 
And  the  oxalis  white-petaled,  with  her  nun-like  grace, 

were  there ; 

Censers  all  unblessed  with  incense — wild  Eschscholtzias' 

golden  bowls; 
Rose  they  call  Castile,  from  mem'ries  planted  deep  in 

homesick  souls. 

Sick  and  dying,  from  their  vessels  came  the  Spaniards 

to  such  land, 
But  ere  Serra  saw  it,  ravished — shorn  by    Summer's 

scorching  hand. 

But  naught  quenched  his    deathless    ardor;    pealed  his 

bells  from  scrubby  tree — 
Glad  as  if  from  storied    turret,    told  they  Christmas 

jubilee. 

When   at   length   th'    impatient    soldiers,    with    their 

suff  'rings  reckless  grown, 
And  despairing  of  th'   Antonio,  storm-bound  long  in 

seas  unknown, 

Goaded  fierce  with  cruel  hunger,  measure  set  for  their 

delay, 
Saying,  " Leave  we  on  Saint  Joseph's,  if  she  come  not 

ere  that  day/' 

All  night  at  the  altar  lay  he,  till  th'  appointed  dawn, 

when,  lo! 
Saw  they  by   vouchsafed   vision   in  the  clouds  a  good 

ship  go. 


[  99 


Still  prayed  on  th'  undoubting  Serra;  when  the  fourth 

day  nigh  was  done, 
O'er  the  tide  a  ship  bread-laden    sailed    athwart    the 

setting  sun. 

All  his  life  the  grateful  father,  for  deliv 'ranee  of  that 

day, 
Celebrated  mass  memorial  on  the  feast  of  San  Jose. 

And  some  tell  that  still  they  see  in  San  Diego's  sunny 

sky, 
On  this  day,  through  phantom  clouds,  a  phantom  ship 

go  sailing  by. 


And    they    named    the    first    young    Mission    for    the 

humblest  of  the  saints, 
Eremite  at  tender  age,  when  life    her    richest    colors 

paints ; 

Didacus,  the  Andalusian,  who    came    from  his  hermit 

cave 
To  serve  Alcala's  sick  beggars,  eager  life's  worst  ills  to 

brave. 

Then  was  reared  the  once  fair  structure,  which  to-day 

a  ruined  pile, 
Stolid  sits  upon  the  hillside,  frowning  at  the  valley's 

smile ; 

Frowning  e'en  upon  the  river,  where  the  hill  its  current 

hems, 
Shining  thread  of  curling  tinsel  twisted  round  the  olive 

stems ; 


100 


Olives  weird  and  ever  moon-lit  flecking  all  the  plain  with 
light, 

Till  the  groining  of  their  shadows  mocks  the  artist's  cun 
ning  rite. 

Armed   cacti,   as   defending,   by  the   garden   wall  now 

stand ; 
But  the  gentle  palms,  desponding,  scarcely  lift  protesting 

hand. 

Gone    all    sign    of  churchly    usage — gone    the    trace    of 

padres'  care; 
Bells  nor  cross  proclaim  the  story  that  His  worship  e'er 

was  there. 

Not  a  saint  nor  altar  standing;  not  a  mural  legend  dear; 
In  the  windows'  deep  embrasure  dismal  owls  hold  orgies 
drear. 

Mass  of  sun-burnt  bricks  adobe,  half  embanked  in  red 

decay ; 
Walls  and  roof  proclaim  its  story  —  dust  to  dust  and 

clay  to  clay. 

Parent  Mission,  well  beloved!  built  in  faith,  baptized  in 

tears ! 
Man  sees  only  Time's  fruition — God  looks  farther  than 

the  years! 


[101] 

San  Luis  Rey  de  Franeia 

Wide  these  Margarita  Mountains  open  cafions  wild  and 

deep, 
Leading  to  San  Luis  Valley,  then  to  eastward  boldly 

sweep ; 

Low  they  crouch  that  o'er  their  shoulders  Santa  Eosa's 
head  may  rise, 

Reaching  toward  one  dream-like  vision  of  the  sea- 
reflected  skies; 

Circling  arms  they  interlace,  till  to  San  Luis'  hills  they 

reach ; 
These  to  westward,  boldly  stretching,  hide  the  gleam  of 

shell-bright  beach. 

Down  the  canon  runs  the  river — Luis  called  for  kingly 

saint — 
Winter  current  bold  and   rapid,    summer   stream   with 

languor  faint; 

Ere  its  bent  course  meets  the  ocean,  to  a  vale  the  hills 
expand — 

Lonely  mountain-circled  valley,  once  the  padres'  pleas 
ant  land. 

Here   they   built   a   stately   structure   on   a   southward 

sloping  hill — 
Castle  with  its  guns  commanding  all  the  valley,  wide  and 

still; 

Once  ''most  splendid  of  the  Missions,"  as  the  chronicler 

relates ; 
Now  Destruction  keeps  each  portal — Death  e'en   at   the 

altar  waits. 


[102 


Once  "most  splendid  of  the   Missions/ *    and  to-day  its 

roods  appear 
In  their  utter  desolation,  than  the  Sodom  plains  more 

drear. 

'Neath  the  roof  of  flaming  frescoes  to  the  wall  a  pulpit 

clings 
And  a  canopy  above  it,  like  a  bat  with  outspread  wings. 

In  a  chancel  grandly  lighted  by  a  stately  lifted  dome, 
Three  great  altars'  tarnished  splendor  tells  e'en  yet  the 
hand  of  Rome. 

Now  appears  of  former  wealth  but  one  old  silver  crucifix, 
And  at  masses  burn  the  tapers  in  quaint  silver  candle 
sticks. 

Worship  rarely  wakes  the  echoes,  burial  service  yet  is 
said, 

Marriage,  baptism,  and  the  masses  for  the  rest  of  faith 
ful  dead. 

Then  through   high  round    arches    springing   from  the 

frescoed  columns  nigh, 
Weird  old  music  throbs  in  anthems  from  the  gall'ry  old 

and  high; 

Indian  voices  and  old  viols — cadences  which  haunt  the 

brain — 
Drear  as  wail  of  ghosts  returned,  their  own  death-mass 

to  chant  again; 


103 


And  the  Dominus  Vobiscum  and  responses  dismal  sung, 
Meeting  o'er  the  low-bent  kneelers,  hang  like  pall  above 
them  flung; 

Till  the  prayer,  the  Dies  Irce,  in  the  ferial  monotone, 
Sobs  like  backward  drifting  sigh  of   those    who   waited 
Christ's  last  moan. 

But  the  curling  incense  rises  with  as  subtle  grace  of  line, 
As    e'er    marked    its    spiral    circles    round    La    Sainte 
Chapelle's  fair  shrine. 

Borne  upon  the  chant's  intoning,  drifts  it  through  the 

doorway  wide, 
Falling  soft  as  benediction  on  the  sleepers  side  by  side. 

In  the  corridors  adjoining,  paced  the  priests  at  even 
tide, 

Looking  o'er  the  broken  valley  and  their  garden  reach 
ing  wide; 

Garden  once  of  toilsome  labors,  miles  of  wall  and  arched 

gateway, 
Tiled  steps    to    a    lake    descending — lake    deep-fringed 

with  willow  spray, 

Now  a  marsh  where  shrieking  wild  fowl  come  storm- 
driven  from  the  sea; 

Stalk  the  cranes  'mong  cacti  hedges — desolation's 
revelry. 


104 


One  tall  palm  in  tropic  splendor — blessed  where  wrath 

on  all  is  poured — 
Lingers,    as    last    guest    departing    from    a    banquet's 

ravished  board. 

Unloved  seems  this  lonely  valley,  wind-swept  from  the 

ocean  near; 
Rank  weeds  claim  its  sweeping  acres  —  e  'en  its  homes 

look  dark  and  drear; 

And  the  Pilgrims  heard   a  legend  which  o'ercast  the 

sacred  place, 
As  might  doubt  of  final  mercy  dim  the  light  of  saint-like 

face. 

For  'tis  said  that  godless  aliens,  on  a  midnight  storm- 
hid  quest, 

Tore  its  paves  for  use  unhallowed  and  its  bricks  for 
walls  unblessed. 

E'en  from  out  the  tabernacle,  holy  things  in  haste  were 

borne ; 
Stood  accursed  the    sacrilegious — scathed    as    trees    by 

lightning  torn. 

And  thereafter  when  black  storm-clouds  caught  the  stars 

from  watching  eyes, 
O'er  the  garden's  fringed  lakelet,  noisome  vapors  would 

arise, 

Rise  and  shape  to  human  figures,  draped  in  penitential 

serge ; 
On  their  knees  in  dread  procession,  wrought  they  to  the 

blast's  wild  dirge. 


105 


Semblance  bright  of  silver  vessels,  some  bore  with  aton- 

ing  hand, 
While  weird  light  from  cross    and    chalice  lit  the  dark 

tile-laden  band. 

Up  the  garden's  paved  steps  toiling — gate  and  walls  no 

hindrance  gave — 
Resting  not  for  rugged  hill-side,  till  through  desecrated 

nave 

Passed  they,  laying  on  the  altar  what  each  thence  had 
seized  before, 

While  strove  some,  with  bootless  labors,  walls  and  pave 
ments  to  restore. 

Rang  their  shrieks  from  castigations,  self-imposed  be 
fore  the  fane, 

Through  the  dim  church  dome  and  arches,  mingling 
with  the  wind's  refrain. 

And  e'en  yet  the   Indians    whisper    when  lights  gleam 

through  blinding  storms, 
"  Tis  the  spirits  doomed  to  penance — look  not  on  their 

cursed  forms." 


[106] 
Pala 

Chapel  of  San  Luis  Eey  de  Francia 

Here  is  brooding  silence  broken  by  the  ground  quail's 
warning  cry, 

When  he  watches  young  flock  feeding,  breast  white- 
ringed  and  proud  crest  high ; 

Plain-robed  mother,  through  the  sages,  speeds  her  brood 

with  cunning  feet, 
Then  uplifts  with  whir  pretentious  far  from  safe  leaf- 

hid  retreat. 

Here   the   flocks  of   blackbirds   rising,   whiz   upon   the 

morning  air; 
Far  aloft  the  shy  deer  listens;  to  his  covert  bounds  the 

hare; 

Here  the    Pala — Sparkling    Water — springs  forth  with 

immortal  birth, 
Down  the  canon  greedy   quicksands   drink  it  from   the 

thirsty  earth; 

And  the  natives  fear  to  gather  roots  from  near  the  living 

spring, 
Lest  from  genii  that  dwell  there  curse  of  drought  the 

act  should  bring. 

Here  the  time-defying  olive  to  the  morn  its  slim  leaves 

turns, 
And  in  colors  of    the   sunset,    all   its   burnished  silver 

burns. 


[107] 


Still  pomegranates  spread  their  blossoms,  strangled    by 

the  tall  weeds  rank, 
And  the  fruited  Aztec  cacti  grow  against  th '  adobe  bank ; 

Here  the  princely  aloe  raises  penciled  tree-top  'gainst 
the  sky, 

Rugged  leaves,  like  faithful  subjects,  round  their  mon 
arch  abject  lie. 

And   the  rudest  mural  paintings  decorate  the   dismal 

hall; 
Wings  of  bats  by  cross  and  chalice;   palms   beside   the 

arrows  tall; 

One  old  tarnished  copper  censer  lies  upon  the  gaping 

floor, 
And  the  few  poor  churchly  treasures  wait  within  yon 

creaking  door; 

Down  this  weird  barbaric  chamber  flames  the  Virgin's 
silver  dress, 

As  a  ray  of  morn  to  wand'rers  lost  in  some  dim  wilder 
ness. 

Sometimes  now  a  godly  father  tells  a  mass  in  this  rude 
hut; 

Loose  the  rite  on  savage  natures!  dry  husk  on  time- 
hardened  nut! 

Still  their  wizard  incantations  tell  they  at  the  mortal 

hour; 
From  the  priest  to    wild    magician,    turn  they  for  the 

healing  power. 


108 


O'er  them  stands  a    belfry    tower,    winter-stained  and 

dark  with  moss; 
On  its  crest  one  bird-brought  cactus  grows  around  the 

broken  cross. 

Lonely  ruined  tower  of  Pala !  dark  with  shadows  of  the 

past! 
Like  Death's  signet  art  thou  set  on  shrines  which  must 

be  his  at  last! 


[109] 

San  Juan  Capistrano 

Onward  from  "Las  Flores"  rancho,  following  the  shore 
line  steeps, 

Ten  leagues  distant  from  San  Luis,  'midst  the  hills  a 
fair  vale  sleeps ; 

Here  the  Coast  Range,  northward  trending,  opens  in  a 
tiny  gate, 

Where  without,  the  chafing  billows  centuries  for  en 
trance  wait. 

Where    th'    arroyo,    called    "Viejo,"    finds    Trabuco's 

loit'ring  stream, 
And  as  young  explorers  seek  they  ocean-world 's  alluring 

gleam, 

Stands  the  Mission    Capistrano    in    a   spot   which    well 

beguiles 
From  th'  impassioned  sun  departing,  all  his  hoarded 

farewell  smiles ; 

Spot  which  mildest  moons  illumine,  where  stars  scin 
tillating  rise 

With  soft  semi-tropic  lustre — light  unknown  to  colder 
skies. 

In  this  calm  and  restful  valley  stands  a  shrine  to  one 

whose  head 
Knew  no  rest,  when  as  Franciscan,  poverty  and  war  he 

wed; 

He  who  from  the   Turks    accursed,    strove  to  tear  the 

shrines  profaned 
By  the  touch  of  infidels,  and  by  the  turbaned  shadows 

stained ; 


110] 


Who  great  riches,  for  the  Master,  with  devoted  life  laid 

down, 
Grieving    he    was    "deemed    unworthy"    to    receive    a 

martyr's  crown. 

Blend  the  olive  and  the  orange  round  his  shrine  their 

shaded  green; 
Tender  bloom  of  gnarled  vines,  tells  boundless  wealth 

that  once  was  seen. 

And  they  say  that  sometimes  voices  chant  within  this 

lonely  shrine, 
And  at  midnight    spectral    tapers    round    its  burning 

crosses  shine; 

Melt  such  phantoms  at  the  dawning  with  the  shadows 
from  its  slope, 

Gleams  on  it  the  morning  sunlight,  but  for  it  no  morn 
ing  hope! 

Soft  'gainst  ocean's  hoarse  boom  falls  the  hum  of  hours 

in  idle  flight, 
As  a  picture's    darker    background    brings  the    tender 

shades  to  light. 

Mountain  perfumes  and  sea-odors  to  a  sweet  narcotic 

blend, 
And  each  day  with  languor  ravished,  slowly  loiters  to 

its  end; 

Till  life  seems  an  old  man  dreaming,  and  with  evening's 

wond'rous  glow 
Flash  the  ruins  as  old  faces  gleam  with  thoughts  of  long 

ago. 


till] 

San  Gabriel  Arcangel 

Veil  of  the  Sierra  Madre!  sheen  of  light  to  tell  whose 

gleam, 
Earthly  words  opaque  and  dull-hued  as  a  child's  clay 

image  seem; 

Sunbeams  pale   before    the    shimmer    of  the  opalescent 

gauze, 
Where  the  rainbow  hue   diffused,    round  Sierra  Madre 

draws 

Veil  of  glowing  iridescence,  woven  from  light's  loosened 

rays 
Smit  by  fine  prisms  atmospheric  in  a  thousand  devious 

ways; 

And  methinks,  when  Spanish  Fathers  named  the  town 

Los  Angeles, 
That  the  grateful  patron  angels,  loit'ring  on  the  sunlit 

breeze, 

Mantles    dropped    of  heav'nly    brightness,    whose  soft 

splendors  never  fail, 
And  they  draped  the  Mother's  mountain  in  their  robes 

— this  lustrous  veil. 

Such  the  light  through  which  Sierra  looks  towards  plain 

of  Gabriel; 
Such  the  air  which  throbs    responsive    to  its  morn  or 

evening  bell. 

Soft  bloom,  that  seems  air  transmuted,  flecks  the  clus 
tered  grapes  with  light, 

Deepens  on  the  downy  umbels  of  the  gardens,  tropic 
bright. 


112 


Fair  as  Aztec  princess  wears  the  orange-tree  her  royal 

green, 
Through  lace  mantle  of  white  blossoms,  golden  jewels 

flash  their  sheen. 

Such  the  place  by  padres  chosen  for  the  patron  angel's 

shrine, 
Angel  of  th'  Annunciation  to  the  maid  of  David's  line. 

Farthest  here  once  Mission  farm  lands  spread  o'er  hills 

on  every  side; 
Farthest  roamed  their    good    herds    seeking  food  from 

mountain  to  the  tide. 

Most    the    Virgin     loved    this  Mission,    to  her    herald 

dedicate, 
Near    her    vale    as    "Queen    of    Angels,"    where    the 

"Mother's  Mountains"  wait; 

Early  she  its  cause  espoused,  when  before  her  banner 

flung 
Without   hands   upon  the   free   winds — where   a  vision 

bright  it  hung  — 

Dusky  warriors  backward    started,  smit    by    grace    of 

godlike  mien, 
As    once    Romans    in    a    garden,   back   from   face   of 

Nazarene ; 

And  the  ones  who  came    to    slaughter,    stayed  strange 

worship  to  repeat, 
Gifts  from  their  poor  riches  leaving,  with  their  weapons, 

at  her  feet. 


113  ] 


Long  the  smile  of  peace  thus  given  rested  on  the  Mission 

young, 
Till  it  grew  to  strength  gigantic  all  its  humble  sons 

among. 

''Once  the  richest  of  the  Missions,"  now  its  desecrated 

feet 
In  pueblo  Mejicano  stand  'mid  squalor  of  the  street. 

Here  dwelt  she  whose  oft-told  story  brings  the  tear  of 
sympathy ; 

Who  at  six  score  years  said  sadly,  ' '  God  must  have  for 
gotten  me;" 

Kind   to    life,   but   no    more    loving,    when   the    tardy 

messenger 
Found  her,  eager  to  rejoin  the  swarthy  tribes  awaiting 

her. 

Still  a  few  old  Indians  linger  squatting  in  the  blazing 

sun, 
Crooning  of  the  Mission's  splendors  when  atole  lacked 

for  none; 

And  they  tell  of  Padre  Serra,  crossing  dark  brows  at 

his  name, 
Tales  of  miracles   their  fathers    told    them  of  his  holy 

fame; 

How  once  lost  upon  the  mountains  came  he  to  Mojave's 

plain, 
Wand 'ring  with  his  people  till  the  fever  woke  in  blood 

and  brain. 


114 


And  through  all  the  'wildered  journey  told  he  ever  way 
side  mass, 

Though  with  thirst  and  famine  fainting,  ne'er  without 
it  day  might  pass; 

That  once  from  his  trembling  fingers,  fell  the  cup  of 
holy  wine, 

And  with  godless  haste  the  dry  ground  drank  the  crim 
son  drops  divine; 

When  lo!  from  the  earth's  parched  lips,  red  with  the 

stain  of  Precious  Blood, 
Sprang  a  fountain  of  pure  waters,   sweet  as  Horeb's 

smitten  flood; 

And  when  Serra,  with  thanksgiving,  would  have  done 

some  penance  still, 
Spake  an  angel  in  a  vision,  "Nay,  it  was  the  Master's 

will." 

Crossed  themselves    again    the    speakers,  lapsing  to  a 

broken  dream; 
Passed  the  Pilgrims  seeing  dimly,  what  to  these  this  life 

must  seem. 

But  there  lingers  through  this  dark  room  echo  none  of 

sweet  notes  hymned; 
Drear  it  seems  as  soul  where  doubts  have  faith  and  hope 

too  early  dimmed. 

Slow  upon  the  numbed  spirit  creeps  a  horror  in  this 

gloom, 
As  if  sigh  from  shrouded  sleeper  smote  one  wandering 

in  a  tomb. 


115  J 


'Midst  this  gray  dusk  watches  still  a  group  of  saints 

on  pillars  old, 
Faces  dull  and  garments  battered,  names  and  sorrows 

long  untold. 

Stands  San  Gabriel,  the  patron,  high  above  the  other 
shrines, 

E'en  from  face  of  faded  statue,  still  some  angel  bright 
ness  shines; 

He  most  honored  messenger  of  all  that  stood  before  the 
throne, 

When  God  would,  unto  His  creatures,  speak  some  pur 
pose  of  His  own. 

He  th '  interpreter  of  visions  to  the  captive  prophet  sent ; 
He  who  sat  at  Eden's    portal,    whence    our  ling 'ring 
parents  went; 

Who  came  to  the  second  Woman  to  announce  the  time 

as  near, 
When  through  her  th'  Avenger  promised  to  the  first 

Eve  should  appear, 

Whose  high  message,    "Hail!    thou    blessed  in  divine 

maternity, ' ' 
Lifted  to  the  throne  in  heaven  pains  accursed  at  Eden's 

tree, — 

Stands  with  ample  gathered  wings,  as  if  he  still  were 

charged  to  greet, 
With  perpetual  song  the  maid  who  stands  enshrined 

at  his  feet. 


116 


Simple    priestess-maid    Judean !    who    should    in    thy 

humble  place 
Deify  to  all  the  ages  mother  love  and  mother  grace ; 

Round  this  dreary  shrine  thy  roses  blossom  in  the  month 

of  May ; 
Light  this  gloom  pale  votive  tapers,  when  is  kept  thy 

festal  day; 

Then  the  choir's  soft  Incarnatus    trembles    round  thy 

vestal  shrine, 
As  the  new  hope  of  the  promise  fluttered  in  thy  soul 

divine ; 

And  the  eve's  Magnificat  breaks  forth  in  glad  trium 
phant  tone, 

As  thy  faith  received  the  glory  of  the  promise  as  thine 
own. 

Maid  "most  pure!"  Maid  "gloriosa!"  Woman  with  a 

loving  heart! 
Though  thyself  of  mothers  saddest,  mothers'  comforter 

thou  art! 

Patroness  of  every  virtue!    Almoner  unto  mankind! 
'  *  Queen  of  men  and  angels ! "  in  thee,  ' '  Lady  Merciful, ' ' 
we  find! 

Pure  impersonation  of  earth's  sublimated  joy  and  pain! 
Of  that  love  most    'kin  to   God's   own,   stand 'st  thou 
Mother  of  the  Slain! 

Motherhood  beatified  woke  in  thy  canticle  of  praise; 
Let  the  JEons  antiphone  it,  till  Time  sees  the  end  of 
days! 


[117] 
San  Bernardino 

Chapel  of  San  Gabriel. 

Long  one  strays  with  dreamful  fancies  that  thy  heart 

may  whisper  low 
Some  strong  thought  for  hopeful  living  from  that  life 

of  long  ago; 

But  thy  desolation  palls  one  with  a  chill  and  nameless 

dread, 
As  if  faith  were  shaken  in  the  resurrection  of  the  dead. 


[118] 

San  Fernando  Rey  de  Espaiia 

Here  the  mountains  burn    at    sunset,    with  that  light 

drawn  from  the  skies — 
Trail  of    glory    drifting    backward    from    the  young 

world's  sacrifice  — 

When  the  Bactrian  high  priest  called  to  earth  celestial 

splendors  down, 
And  bade  mortals    worship    fire    as    holy    light    from 

Mithra's  crown. 

In  this  vale  a  host  angelic  floated   'thwart  the  ebbing 

day, 
Sent  to  point  the  fathers  to  a  shrine  for  San  Fernando 

Rey. 

Pointed  they  to  distant  mountain  set  in  opalescent  haze, 
Where  it  looked  adown  the  valley  through  the  evening's 
crimson  blaze; 

Pointed  they,  then  upward  floated,  and  a  cloud  around 

them  shone, 
Soft  as  smoke  of  curling    incense    from    the  swinging 

censer  thrown. 

When  the  Morn  dismissed  the  night-guard  from  the 
border-land  of  day, 

Smiled  she  to  behold  the  fathers  far  upon  their  heaven 
sent  way. 

But  the  gardens  which  they  planted,  fairest  here  of  all 

remain, 
'Neath  the  mountain  named  for  royal  Ferdinand,    the 

Saint  of  Spain. 


[119 


Olive  trees  still  stand  gigantic  which  a  hundred  years 

have  crowned, 
Triple  avenues  denning  all  the  garden's  widest  bound. 

To  their  peaceful  arms  presents  its   thorny   breast   the 

cactus  tree, 
And  the  noble  aloes  lift  their  coronets  of  filigree. 

High  among  the  storied    olives,    saintly    palms    their 

heads  upraise, 
And  they  mingle  sighs    together    for    the  changed  and 

loveless  days; 

Grieve  they  for  the  glebe  unbroken,  for  the  reservoirs 
long  dry, 

For  the  aqueducts  where  sere  leaves  in  the  tiny  whirl 
winds  fly; 

Grieve  they  for  the  life  departed,  for  the  ruined  church 

hard  by, 
Where  they  see  its  cross  no  longer  outlined  'gainst  the 

cloudless  sky. 

And  the  only  chant  that  ever  sounds  within  the  dreary 

pale, 
Is  the  fierce,  hot  wind  of  summer  sweeping  down  this 

lonely  vale. 


[120] 

The  Christ  of  San  Buena  Ventura 

Ghastly  Christ  on  rude  cross  lifted,  while  behind  the 

clear-carved  face, 
All  the  symbols  of  His  sorrow,  on  the  wall  your  tears 

may  trace — 

Cursed  rods  and  cruel  nails  that  once  were  hid  in  holy 

flesh; 
Crown  of  thorns  and  mocking  palm-branch;  spear  that 

drew  His  life-blood  fresh; 

Sponge  upheld  in  vile  derision;  robe  of  scorn  they  bade 

Him  wear; 
Chalice  of  the  blessed  promise  that  His  life  His  own 

should  share! 

Meet  the  place  for  requiem  masses  which  in  holy  week 

are  said, 
When  the  prostrate  priest  bewails  the  sorrows   of   the 

princely  Dead; 

Round  this  shrine  the  Crucifixus  from  the  organ's  dirge 

floats  down, 
Drear  as  once  the  noonday  darkness  fell  on  Calvary's 

awful  crown. 

But  at  festivals  returning,   Christmas  joy  or  Paschal 

glee, 
Fresh  young  voices  flood  the  dark  nave  with  their  tide 

of  minstrelsy; 

And  the  rippling  light- waves  sparkle  'gainst  the  Cru 
cifix'  dull  gloom, 

Bright  as  that  first  Easter  sunlight  flashed  on  Joseph's 
garden  tomb. 


121 


What  are  names  to  hearts  that  love  Him !  one  same  hope 

is  for  us  all! 
Jesus  lay  within  the    dark    tomb — grief    for  Him  our 

common  pall! 

Why  the  strifes  that  vex  the  Master!  the  same  themes 

our  tongues  employ; 
Christ  was  raised  from  out  the  shadows — love  for  Him 

our  common  joy. 


[122] 

Santa  Barbara 

Here  the  soft  sweet  airs  distilling  seem  a  necromancer's 
balm, 

Wearied  soul  and  body  lull  they  till  life  seems  a  dream 
ful  calm. 

Looked  the  padres  on  the  rich  land  sloping  toward  the 

toiling  sea 
Working  waves  of  molten  silver  into  fine  wrought  filigree ; 

(lazing  from  the  Mission  hillside,  strangers  pause  to  hear 
a  tale 

Of  the  ghosts  that  haunt  yon  islands  with  their  flam 
beaux  far  and  pale: 

Phantom  skiffs  like  tule  shadows,  and  their  rowers  tall 

and  stark, 
Flit  with  torches  'cross  the  channel,  through  the  hollow 

of  the  dark, 

From  the  Ana  Capa  to  the  Santa  Cruz'  steep  jagged 

shore, 
And  from  Santa  Rosa  backward,  through  the  still  night 

o'er  and  o'er, — 

Back  and  forward  to  the  mainland,  to  the  Missions  white 

and  still, 
Barbara's  and  far  Ventura's  faintly  limned  against  the 

hills; 

Long  the  rites  upon  the  islands,  as  if  there  were  celebrate 
The  returning  day  of  burial  of  some  savage  potentate; 


[123 


And  the  torchlights  white  and  spectral  swept  the  In 
dians'  swart  lines, 

Till  the  shapes  seemed  ghouls  of  fable,  feasting  round 
some  charnel  shrines. 

******** 

Built  they  when  the  spring-time  brightened  with  star- 
flowers  the  rugged  slopes ; 

Patron  chose —  a  maid  whose  spring-time  beamed  with 
martyr 's  star-bright  hopes ; 

And  the  Mission  of  their  rearing  lifts  its  comely  head  to 
day, 

Smiling  down  on  resting  valley,  hills,  and  town,  and 
sweeping  bay. 

Round  it  broken  walls  are  crumbling,  which  but  lend  a 

rougher  grace, 
As  a  rustic  frame  which  heightens  beauty  of  a  pictured 

face. 

Walls  of  stone  from  pave  to  turret,  strong  as  tower  on 

armed  field, 
Roof   of  tiles   uplift   to   heaven  —  tiles   the   weight   of 

warrior's  shield. 

Massive  towers  defend  the  portal,  and  the  bells  still  tell 

their  tale : 
"God  and  truth  go  on  forever,  'tis  the  faith  of  man  doth 

fail." 


124 


Ent'ring  through  a  great  stone  doorway,  distant  taper 
greets  the  sight, 

Like  a  star  of  promise  burning  through  life's  sorrow- 
clouded  night. 

Dim  light  from  the  small  high  windows,  shrouds  in  gloom 

the  outlines,  where 
Slow  appears  a  monk  Franciscan,  kneeling  at  a  shrine  of 

prayer ; 

Friar  in  a  long  gray  garment,  hooded  folds  of  heavy 

serge, 
At  the  waist  with  white  cord  girdled,  heavy  knotted  as  a 

scourge  — 

Shadow-like  he  moves  to  greet  us,  and  the  rosary  falls 

down 
Where  the  naked  foot  in  sandal  shows  beneath  the  heavy 

gown. 

Shows  he  silver  pyx  and  chalice ;  precious  thuribles  gold- 
lined  ; 

Mite  of  True  Cross  fondly  cherished,  by  Faith's  eyes 
alone  defined; 

And  old  saints  that  stood  dejected,  as  if  from  the  altar 

cast, 
Round  a  crucifix  as  saying,  "True  our  love  e'en  to  the 

last;" 

Crucifix  of  cunning  carving,  where  a  matchless  hand  has 
shown 

Tale  of  Olivet's  grand  passion,  with  a  grace  some  mas 
ter's  own, — 


[125] 


Such  the  vivid  truth  of  line,  the  heart  swells  with  a  sud 
den  throe; 

Seems  Gethsemane 's  low  moan  to  throb  once  more 
through  midnight  woe ; 

Seems  the  cry  of  Calvary  to  ring  through  sounding  years 

again  — 
Cry  wrung  from  a  soul's  great  anguish  which  surpassed 

all  fleshly  pain. 

Mute  with  thought,  through  long  dim  cloisters,  grope  we 

to  yon  spot  of  day, 
As  our  spirits  blindly  stumble  through  earth's  doubts 

toward  heavenly  ray. 


[126] 

Santa  Ynez 

Still  upon  these  cragged  slopes  the  deer  feed  in  the  twi 
light  glow, 

While  the  bear  and  mountain  lion  keep  at  bay  the  com 
mon  foe. 

Here  Madrono,  masquerader,  makes  the  shrubby  forest 

gay; 
Hangs  the  Manzanita  shyly,  berries  bright  by  mountain 

way. 

On  the  creeks  the  plant  of  Gilead  finds  the  bay's  funereal 

tree; 
Heaven's  healing  on  Death's  footstep  follows,  if  we  will 

but  see. 

Of  these  hills  the  herds  unconquered,  ownership  with 

grizzlies  claimed, 
Ruled  the  bullock  o'er  the  mountain,  as  some  savage 

prince  untamed. 

Often  here  the  wild  rodeo  tore  the  dust  from  ev'ry  hill, 
And  the  bellowing  of  cattle  made  the  very  tree-tops  thrill. 

Proud  rode  forth  the  brave  vaquero,  horse  and  rider 

moved  as  one, 
Pawed  the  ground  th'  impatient  mustang,  eager  for  the 

fray  begun. 

Dashed  they  in  'mong  fierce  bands  surging,  wild  as  bil 
lows  winter-lashed; 

Like  white  boats  o'er  waves  wind-driven,  their  sun- 
bright  sombreros  flashed ; 


127 


Parting  rightward,  parting  leftward,  that  each  ranch  its 
own  might  gain; 

Savage  bullocks  with  their  wide  horns,  plowed  the  trem 
bling  earth  in  vain ; 

For  the  hissing  keen  riatas'  level  circles  small  or  great, 
Seized  upon  the  maddened  captives,  like  a  fierce  pursu 
ing  fate; 

Supple  dropped  on  horns  defiant,  sinuous  caught  the 

flying  feet; 
Swayed  each  rider  in  his  saddle,  with  a  movement  bold 

and  fleet; 

Backward  braced  the  foaming  mustang,  rolled  the  con 
quered  to  the  ground, 

Helpless  'neath  the  branding  iron,  firmly  by  the  skilled 
noose  bound. 

Gone  the  wild  herds  from  the  mountains ;  ride  forth  few 

vaqueros  now; 
Hang  the  braided  lithe  riatas  useless  on  the  saddle-bow ; 

For  the  droves  in  paltry  numbers,  tame  as  barn-yard 

bovines  stand, 
In  their  bondage  scare  rebelling  at  the  hot  iron's  servile 

brand. 


Where  the  mountain's  veil  is  bluest,  like  bones  bleach 
ing  in  the  sun 

Lie  stark  ruins  of  the  work  built  late  ere  padres'  time 
was  done; 


[128 


Stands  a  corridor  of  arches,  turned  to  greet  the  rising 

sun; 
One  waits  for  his  benediction,  when  for  us  his  work  is 

done. 

Through  the  fathers'  stone-paved  chambers  rings  the 

heel 's  half-shrinking  tread, 
Drear  as  mem'ries  through  a  heart  which  knows  all 

hopes  of  earth  are  dead. 

Iron  doors  and  cloisters  bolted;  rusty  locks  resist  the 

hand; 
What  is  this  whose  blackness  threatens  where  the  barred 

gateways  stand! 

Dungeon   sunless   as  the  sorrow  which  its  walls  have 

echoed  back; 
Soldier  life  and  priestly  ruling,  here  have  left  a  certain 

track. 

Judge  not,  by  the  light  we  live  in,  men  who  wrought  in 

greater  gloom; 
Leave  to  Him  whose  vision  reaches  from  earth's  cradle 

to  its  tomb. 

God  alone  can  sift  the  gleanings  which  the  years  have 

gathered  in, 
Horrors  marked  with  holy  purpose;  good,  with  serpent 

trail  of  sin. 


Sweet  the  story  of  Our  Lady  who  on  Guadalupe's  site, 
Showed  her  pure  face  to  an  Indian,  late  redeemed  from 
pagan  rite ; 


129 


While  he  wandered  through  the  cactus,  pondering  her 
virtues  rare, 

Lo !  upon  the  hill  before  him,  stood  her  semblance  pass 
ing  fair; 

And  she  softly  spoke  unto  him,  while  he  sank  upon  the 

earth, 
"Fear  not,  son  of  Montezuma,  chosen  thou  e'en  from 

thy  birth ; 

' '  Bear  my  message  to  the  fathers,  that  a  house  they  build 

me  here, 
And  my  glory  shall  rest  on  it :— Son,  depart  with  heart 

of  cheer." 

And  her  smile,  a  radiant  blessing,  fell  upon  his  spirit's 

strife, 
Soft  as  sweet  dew  of  the  manna  feeding  with  the  bread 

of  life; 

Then  a  darkness  smote  his  dim  soul,  and  a  dread  doubt 

on  him  fell; 
Thrice  repeated  was  the  vision  ere  he  dared  the  tale  to 

tell. 

Spake  the  fathers,  gravely  doubting,  "Lo!  the  winter 

time  perceive; 
Bring  us  now  the  Mother's  flowers,  and  thy  message 

we'll  believe." 

Went  he  forth  to  sunlight  darkened,  prostrate  at  his 

rocky  shrine, 
When  a  voice  like  soft  air  pulsing,  spake  in  cadences 

divine ; 


130] 


Paused  the  smitten  earth  to  listen,  wheeled  the  birds  and 

hung  in  air; 
"Son,   behold  yon  barren  rock  and  thence  my  sacred 

roses  bear." 

When  before  the  bishops  his  rough  tilma  laid  he  on  the 

ground, 
Stood  rebuked  unto  their  servant,  prelates  deep  in  lore 

profound ; 

On  the  robe  of  aloe  thread,  'neath  mystic  roses  piled  as 

May, 
Was  the  Dame  of  Guadalupe,  pictured  in  a  wond'rous 

way. 

Stands  to-day  an  altar  where  her  blessed  feet  made  holy 

ground, 
And  the  homes  of  Guadalupe  throng  the  Mother's  doors 

around. 


[131] 
San  Luis  Obispo  de  Tolosa 

When  the  fathers  passed  to  southward  from  Antonio's 

new-made  shrine, 
Just  within  the  shelt'ring  steeps  which  bend  to  skirt  the 

sea-coast  line, 

Full  two  score  of  leagues  their  journey,  as  the  bee  his 
pathway  grades; 

Many  score  they  wandered  blindly  in  and  out  'mong  un 
known  glades. 

Once  within  a  deep,  lone  canon,  when  night  found  them 

without  bread, 
Came  toward  them   o'er  wooded  hill-side  —  shadowed 

glories  round  his  head  — 

One  who  led  them  in  sweet  converse,  and  laid  bread  upon 

their  board; 
Found  the  morn  their  guest  departed,  and  their  hampers 

newly  stored. 

And  a  radiant  youth  oft  met  them,  offering  flask  of 

grateful  wine, 
And  they  felt  its  sweet  refreshment,  knowing  not  the 

gift  divine. 


On  these  rugged  cliffs  to  seaward,  opened  are  the  graves 

today, 
Where  the  unbaptized  were  buried  with  their  vessels 

of  coarse  clay. 


[132] 


Hence  a  mountain-crowded  canon  reaches  inward  from 

the  sea, 
Till    it    meets    two    pointed    summits    lifting   heaven's 

canopy ; 

Here  for  Louis  of  Toulouse  they  set  the  bishop 's  crosier 
down, 

Gave  his  name  to  dreamful  valley,  river,  and  the  moun 
tain 's  crown; 

He  who  to  the  throne  of  Naples  for  Christ's  love  gave 

up  his  claim; 
Who  barefooted,  unattended,  prelate  to  Tolosa  came. 

******** 

This  the  corridor  historic,  by  the  tales  the  people  tell  — 
Be  they  verity  or  legend  —  of  strange  scenes  which  here 
befell; 

For  once  paced  a  sad  procession  —  grieved  the  morning 

at  the  sight  — 
Bent  forms  draped  in  sombre  garments,  dark  against  the 

Mission's  white. 

Bowed  heads,  with  rebozos  covered,  followed  where  Ra- 

mona  led  — 
Brave  Ramon  a  de  Pacheco,  lifting  proud  uncovered  head. 

Came  sefioras  leading  children,  from  a  night  of  prayer 

and  grief, 
Seeking  from  young  Fremont  pardon  for  Don  Jesus 

Pico,  chief. 


133] 


To  their  slow  half-smothered  footsteps  sighed  the  corri 
dor's  cold  stone, 

As  they  passed  with  woeful  mien,  by  prayers  and  weep 
ing  to  atone. 

As  of  old  came  Roman  matrons,  seeking  for  their  city's 
life, 

At  his  feet  knelt  these  untiring.  Stern  the  soldier's  in 
ward  strife. 

Tolled  the  Mission  bells  the  moments ;  paced  the  sentries 

to  and  fro; 
Flung  the  sun  his  bloody  banners;  still  the  pleaders 

would  not  go. 

Came  the  word  to  stay  the  sentence:  "Gracias  Dios" 

checked  their  tears ; 
As  alcalde  of  the  country,  lived  Don  Jesus  many  years. 


Gone  the  plaza  and  the  fountains;  Spain's  delights  for 

aye  are  fled; 
E'en  the  square  of  consecration  now  receives  no  more 

the  dead ; 

Gone  the  neophytes  who  wondered  while  the  unknown 

God  they  praised; 
Aliens   till  their   rolling  valleys  —  strangers  hold   the 

walls  they  raised. 

Where  were  laid  the  Mission  gardens,  the  young  city's 

streets  are  led, 
'Midst  them  apricot  or  pear  tree,  lank  and  sere,  lift 

outcast  head. 


[134] 
San  Miguel  Arcangel 


O  ye  oaks!   Ye  guardian  genii  of  the  broad  leagues  up 

and  down! 
Tell  us  of  the  scenes  ye  witnessed  or  with  smile  or  angry 

frown. 

In  your  tops  we  hear  a  murmur;  is  it  thus  brave  deeds 

are  sung? 
For   the   alien   suppliants    deign   to    speak    in    coarser 

human  tongue. 

Answers  not  your  whispered  cadence ;  is  it  worship  blent 

with  sighs? 
Droop  ye  lower  o'er  the  ruin  lifted  dark  against  the 

skies  ? 

Hold  this  truth,  0  fading  shrine!  'tis  all  that's  left  to 

light  thy  day: 
?Tis  the  soul  that  may  illume  e'en  wasted  lines  of  dying 

clay. 

Awful  silence  broods  around  thee,  and  the  noonday  hazes 

thrill 
With  a  pulse  which  seems  a  mem'ry  of  the  life  that  now 

is  still. 

Fare-thee-well !    Such  desolation  seems  of  Time's  own 

death  a  part; 
Leave  we  thee  to  dreams  and  shadows;  turn  we  to  the 

world's  great  heart. 


[135] 
San  Carlos  del  Carmelo 

Pause  upon  the  gentle  hillside,  view  San  Carlos  by  the 

sea, — 
'Gainst  pale  light  a  shape  Morisco  wrought  in  faded 

tapestry. 

'Neath  Mt.  Carmers  brooding  shadow,  peaceful  lies  the 

storied  pile, 
And  the  white-barred  river  near  it  sings  a  requiem  all  the 

while. 

Why  was  name,  to  Christian  precious,  found  within  this 

lonely  place, 
Borne  by  stream  which  mirrored  only  swarthy  brow  or 

deer's  shy  grace? 

Band  of  friars  Carmelite,  came  with  Viscaino  long  before, 
Salves  chanting  to  their  Lady  by  this  far  and  fabled 
shore ; 

And  their  name  on  stream  and  mountain  brightened  all 

the  unblessed  place, 
As  the  mem'ry  of  a  sweet  smile  lightens  up  a  sombre 

face. 

Now  remains  of  many  labors  by  the  loyal  sons  of  Spain, 
Not  a  tropic  leaf  reminding  of  the  Andalusian  plain. 

Where  were  roofs  of  tiles  or  thatches,  roughest  mounds 

mark  every  side, 
And  where  once  the  busy  court-yard,  searching  winds 

find  crevice  wide. 


[136 


Gone  all  trace  of  padres'  dwelling,  and  'midst  ruin  yet 
remains 

But  the  church  front  in  its  beauty,  arabesqued  with  win 
ter  stains ; 

High  two  Moorish  belfry  towers  lift  the  sign  of  Calvary, 
Tell  the  deep-worn  steps  ascending  oft  their  sweet  bells 
woke  the  sea. 

O'er  the  door  a  star  embrasured  tells  the  tale  of  Beth 
lehem, 
Far  more  eloquent  to  Indian  than  the  priestly  apothegm. 

See  from  'neath  the  low  carved  doorway  flowers  blos 
som  through  the  nave, 

0  'er  debris  from  roof  and  pillars  heaped  upon  the  square 
tiled  pave. 

Where  were  altars,  wild  doves  twitter  —  o  'er  them  drops 

the  roof  away ; 
Where  burnt  type  of  Eeal  Presence,  sunshine  streams  this 

many  a  day. 

Softly  tread  the  sanctuary,  where  the  reverend  sleepers 

lie, 
'Neath  the  spot  where  oft  they  lifted  sacrificial  Host  on 

high. 

Guards  them  there  an  earnest  priest  who  deems  their 

shrine  a  sacred  trust  — 
He  whose  search  in  musty  volumes  found  what  place 

held  Serra's  dust. 


137 


Yearly  here  the  Indians  gather  on  San  Carlos  holy  day ; 
Sad  memorial  to  the  man  who  would  have  died  for  such 
as  they. 

Weirdly  echo  their  responses  for  the  saint  they  do  not 

know; 
But  they  know  their  hopes  are  broken,  arid  that  Serra  lies 

below. 

And  they  tremble  when  they  tell  you  that  at  midnight 

of  that  day 
Will  arise  their  buried  kindred  in  a  ghostly  dumb  array ; 

Round  the  ruin  in  procession  with  their  torches  white  and 

stiU, 
Passing  through  the  shadowy  doorway  from  their  graves 

beneath  the  hill; 

And  that  Serra,  like  a  god,  although  his  burial  stone 
moves  not, 

Will  lead  them  in  mass  majestic  on  the  drear  but  hal 
lowed  spot; 

With  strange  aspergill  will  scatter  o'er  their  forms  a 

phantom  spray, 
While  Crespi  will  swing  the  censer  through  air  unpulsed 

by  its  sway; 

And  the  altar's  spectral  tapers  will  gleam  on  their  faces 

white, 
And  the  Crucifix'  soft  splendor  fill  the  dark  nave  with 

its  light; 


[138] 


Hoarse  will  sob  the  surf  responsive,  moan  the  wind  in 

minor  strain, 
Mingling  with  the  faint  far  echoes,  some  celestial  choir's 

refrain ; 

Night  winds  will  not  stir  the  garments  of  the  kneelers  on 

the  ground, 
To  the  voiceless  Pax  Vobiscum,  lips  will  answer  without 

sound ; 

And  will  cross  the  brows  unearthly,  hands  which  leave  no 
shadow  there, 

As  the  forms  and  lights  phantasmal  melt  into  the  mid 
night  air. 

Such  the  shadow  thrown  upon  the  Campos  Santos  'neath 
the  hill, 

Where  the  rulers  of  the  young  land  many  graves  un 
noticed  fill. 

At  this  Mission  long  dwelt  Serra  —  padre  of  the  padres 

he; 
Hence  o'er  hill  and  desert  went  he  through  his  apostolic 

see. 

Thence  returning  worked  he  humbly  with  the  Indians 

while  he  taught, 
Bearing  burdens  as   St.   Francis  when  at  Damian  he 

wrought. 

Showed  he,  too,  by  dread  example  —  torches  to  his  flesh 

applied, 
Beaten  breast  with  stones  and  scourges  —  woes  for  those 

who  godless  died. 


139  ] 


Told  he  mass  at  shrine  most  humble,  not  within  the  walls 

we  see ; 
'Neath  a  low,  thatched  roof  uncomely,  served  he  altar 

ministry. 

And  when  fell  upon  his  brow  a  shadow  from  the  farther 
land, 

Thitherward  turned  he  all  gladly,  lifting  patient,  long 
ing  hand; 

Seeing  naught   'midst  heaven's  glories  his  pure  spirit 

more  besought 
Than  a  "grander  gift  of  prayer,"  for  poor  souls  for 

whom  he  wrought. 

When  from  self-imposed  retreat  he  came  forth  to  the 
sacrament, 

Rung  his  Salutaris  Hostia,  though  his  form  with  weak 
ness  bent; 

Rose  his  Tantum  Sacramentum  in  a  tone  that  mocked  all 

pain, 
While  the  voice  of  priests  and  kneelers  died  in  tears  at 

the  refrain ; 

Laid  he  then  tired  head  in  rapture  on  the  breast  of 

mother  earth  — 
Dumb  bequest  of  his  poor  body  to  the  heart  that  gave  it 

birth,— 

Chill  embrace  which  he  felt  not,  Faith's  glowing  robe 

was  round  him  cast; 
Proved  he  true  to  poverty  and  to  St.  Francis  to  the  last. 


140] 


Bore  the  waiting  ones  his  spirit,  and  their  anthem's  joy 
ous  swell 

Mingled  with  the  notes  funereal  of  the  solemn  passing 
bell. 

And  the  boom  of  dreary  cannon  told  above  the  moaning 

sea 
How  the  earth  had  lost  a  soldier  and  The  Church  a 

devotee. 

And  the  angel  voices  answered  that  The  Church  in  heaven 

had  found 
One  whose  welcome  should  re-echo  through  the  welkin's 

farthest  bound. 

And  they  laid  him  by  Crespi,  the  friend  whose  toils  were 

sooner  o'er. 
At  the  feet  of  Dolorosa  and  beneath  the  chancel  floor. 

Lie  their  crypts  in   desolation  —  sun   and  storm   upon 

them  beat ; 
Desolation  is  aboiit  them  —  sun  and  storm  upon  them 

beat. 


[141] 

Santa  Cruz 

Hail  thou  Cross  of  adoration!  was't  in  Eden  thou  had'st 

birth, 
When  the  new-blessed  parted  waters  found  the  corners  of 

the  earth! 

Mystic  sign  in  far-passed  ages,  when  with  bashful  hand 
the  Morn 

First  enwrapped  with  rosy  mantle  young  Atlantis,  ocean- 
born, 

Is't  by  thee  that  man,  an  exile,  keeps  sad  mem'ry  of  that 

land? 
Or  was't  thou  God's  pledge  of  peace,  when  Eve  bewailed 

her  lifted  hand? 

Thou  e'er  deemed  by  God-taught  sages,  emblem  of  some 

strange  new  life, 
Since  man  first  on  record  tablets  wrought  his  faith  with 

cunning  knife ; 

Borne  by  sculptured  gods  and  monarchs,  carved  on  tem 
ple,  shaft  and  urn, — 

Thou  was't  old  when  Egypt  found  thee ;  Persia  young,  of 
thee  would  learn. 

Bars   of   death  most   ignominious,   when  disgrace   was 

heaped  on  crime; 
The  accretion  of  man's  venom  gathered  from  the  crypts 

of  time. 

Man 's  first  promise  to  the  future,  in  which  life  and  death 

types  meet; 
Heritage  of  all  the  ages  when  ye  lay  at  Jesus'  feet. 


142 


Hail  thou  sign  of  life  immortal !  symbol  of  a  death  pro 
fane! 

Waited 'st  thou  MESSSIAH  —  CHRIST-MAN,  to  unite  thy 
meanings  twain ! 


[143] 

The  Last  Sermon 
of  Fray  Junipero  Serra 

"O,  brothers  grieve  not  that  the  old  gives  place  to  new, 
That  the  present's  rushing  purpose  to  the  past  forgets 
its  due; 

' '  God  endures  to  see  the  lily  drop  its  petals  one  by  one : 
Shall  not  we  abide  the  death  of  that  whose  work  for  earth 
is  done? 

"Gone  our  Missions'  life  midst  conflicts,  but  the  truth 

we  sought  to  tell 
Shall  resist  the  strife  of  ages,  for  with  God  its  might 

doth  dwell; 

* '  Truth  of  God 's  great  love  to  mortals  shown  in  Type  of 

holy  life, 
Whose  humility  majestic  should  rebuke  man's  pride  of 

strife. 

"Doubt  not  that  such  love  shall  conquer  though  some 

faith-built  altars  fall, 
That  the  sacrifice  was  perfect,  made  but  once  and  made 

for  all. 

"By  the  holy  saints  and  martyrs  whose  great  lives  shall 

burn  sublime, 
Heaven-set  torches  ever  flaming  down  the  corridors  of 

time; 

"By  His  Mother's  seven  sorrows;  by  the  twelve  stars 

on  her  brow; 
By  her  present  adoration,  in  which  e'en  the  seraphs 

bow; 


[144] 


"By  His  holy  incarnation;  by  that  Power  which  healed 

all  pain ; 
By  the  Hand  that  burst  the  tomb  when  once  came  forth 

the  mighty  Slain; 

"By  the  glorious  Presence  Real, — the  Eucharist's  grand 

mystery, 
Doubt  not  that  the  love  shall  triumph  sealed  with  blood 

on  Calvary. 

"He  who  makes  man's  fury  praise  Him,  the  remainder 
shall  restrain; 

On  wrath's  ruin,  temple  nobler  shall  uplift  its  fair  do 
main, — 

"Temple  grand  enough  to  gather  all  the  faithful  of  all 

time ; 
Then  shall  Jubilate  Deo  blend  in  tongues  of  every  clime. 

"If  we  know  not  such  proportions,  see  our  measuring 

line  too  small; 
Be  sure  God's  love  spans  the  millions  as  His  sun  shines 

over  all. 

"Then  grieve  not  at  altars  broken,  or  at  mould  on  cher 
ished  shrine. 

God  is  greater  than  the  ages!  Truth  is  as  His  life  — 
divine!" 

And  the  Holy  Cross  in  blessing  lifted  o'er  their  bowed 
heads 

Was  in  substance  as  the  lustre  which  heaven's  open  por 
tal  sheds; 


[145 


'Neath  its  soft  suffused  glory,  blent  their  outlines  with 

pure  light, 
As  at  the  Transfiguration  heavenly  forms  were  lost  from 

sight. 


Francisca  Reina,  or 

Songs  and  Ballads  of  the  Great  Fire 

in  San  Francisco 

April,  1906 


Francisca  Reina  " :  Richard  G.  Badger 
Boston,  1908] 


The  horror  which  surpassed  all  telling; 
The  memories  still  welling,  welling, 

-Exhaustless  fountain  of  our  pain  — 

Let  us  forget. 

The  nights  that  made  us  gray  ere  mornings, 
The  desolation  of  those  dawning s, 

Whose  like,  no  suns  of  fire-red  stain 
Had  seen  before  nor  may  again, 
Let  us  forget. 

The  losses  which  have  made  us  brothers; 
The  sufferings,  our  own  and  others', 

The  wrecking  of  a  life's  long  toil, 

Let  us  forget. 

Lest  we  grow  hard  and  unforgiving, 
Lest  we  lose  that  great  joy  of  living  — 

The  might  to  wrest  from  out  the  soil 
The  wealth  that  is  our  rightful  spoil  - 
Let  us  forget. 

Lest  we  get  low  and  weary-hearted 
Thinking  of  old  and  new  thus  parted 

— A  gulf  whose  bridge  is  hope  alone  — 

Let  us  forget. 

Let  us  look  onward  to  the  morrows; 
As  monuments  o'er  buried  sorroivs 

Piling  the  best  the  world  has  known 
Of  iron  strength  and  carven  stone, 

Let  its  forget. 
Lord  God!  Help  us  forget. 


[149] 

Francisca  Reina 

A  stricken  queen,  but  still  a  queen  of  queens, 

She  sat  upon  the  sloping  of  her  hills 

Where  wreck  and  fire  had  danced  the  dance  of  death. 

Her  forehead  bowed  upon  her  knees  she  sat, 

An  instant  stunned  by  her  transcendant  woe. 

The  smoke  still  burnt  her  eyelids,  and  her  throat 

Quivered  with  pungent  acids  of  the  flame. 

The  acrid  vapors  of  the  steaming  muck 

Were  in  her  nostrils,  and  her  slackened  breath 

Was  spent  through  ashes  on  her  bleeding  lips. 

A  while  all  paralyzed,  then  slow  her  head 

Upraised.    Her  eyes  were  dim.    She  saw  through  mists 

The  vista  of  her  hills  all  gray  and  still. 

When  would  they  laugh  again?    Ten  thousand  homes 

Had  burnt  their  hearthstones  into  monuments 

For  her  as  dead.   That  cup  unveiled  she  saw 

Which  fate  has  ready  for  the  desolate, 

The  black  wine  of  despair  each  hour  new  pressed 

From  envy  of  the  nether  gods.   This  cup, 

Scorned  lightly  in  her  pride,  he  thrust  at  her 

With  coward  jeers:  "Drink,  drink,  thou  boastful  dame. 

Dost  mock  it  now?    There's  nothing  more  for  thee. " 

One  glance  !    The  vision  came !   Her  spirit 's  light 

Broke  forth  in  aureole  about  her  head  — 

Glory  immortal  of  a  risen  soul. 

Upright  she  stood.   Hot  cinders  burnt  her  feet  — 

She  knew  it  not.   With  fingers  tense,  the  cup 

She  seized  and,  like  one  born  to  her  own  house, 

That  black  wine  of  despair  she  tossed  aloft 

Upon  the  embers  and  the  blistering  rocks. 


150] 


"  'Tis  not  for  me,  a  queen,  this  dastard  draught. 
For  lo!    They  come  —  my  children  from  the  sea 
Of  fire  —  each  man  a  king.   Their  garments  smoke. 
Their  brows  deep  seamed,  but  bright  with  hope.    Their 

eyes 

Are  brave,  their  faces  set  to  conquer  death. 
My  sons!   My  sons!"   With  touch  of  its  old  joy 
Her  voice  rang  out  among  the  blackened  tombs. 
"Come  near,  ye  bruised  ones.    Unflinching  hearts, 
Together  make  we  sacrificial  vows 
With  orisons  unto  the  rising  sun." 


[151] 

Francisca  Dolorosa 

Fore-doomed  the  horror  of  the  age  to  bear, 

By  Fate  hand-gripped,  we  went  forth  from  our  homes. 

From  mornings  to  the  ending  days  we  fared, 

And  from  three  midnights  to  their  dawns  again 

From  place  to  place ;  the  while,  a  demon  crazed, 

Destruction  followed  in  a  pact  with  Death. 

And  yet  a  song  was  on  our  lips.   We  smiled 

Into  each  other's  eyes  in  comradeship. 

The  great  heart  of  humanity  awoke 

With  throbs  which  stilled  the  consciousness  of  self. 

And  we  went  forth  to  night  that  was  as  day, 
To  day  that  was  as  night,  for  time  was  not. 
The  parrot  clinging  to  his  master's  sleeve 
Forgot  his  chattering.     The  songless  birds 
Shivered  upon  the  perch.    Dumb  creatures'  eyes 
Were  pleading  unto  us.    Go  forth?    Whither? 
To  pavements  choked  with  people  dazed  by  shock, 
Smoke-strangled,  bent  beneath  their  burdened  backs, 
Half  dumb  and  goblin-like  in  flame-lit  smoke; 
Streets  harsh  with  scrapings  of  a  hasty  flight, 
Ashriek  with  dragging  things  that  blocked  our  feet. 
The  mountains  called  and  from  the  docks  the  cry, 
* '  This  way  for  life !   To  save  your  life,  this  way. ' ' 
For  hours,  the  sea,  far  out,  had  roared  its  pain. 

But,  now,  the  bay,  unmindful  of  the  wounds 
Of  Mother  Earth,  said,  "Come,  I  know  a  shore 
Of  rest : ' '  and  thousands  followed  it  to  peace, 
On  waves  resplendent  in  a  world  of  fire, — 
The  light  from  an  Immortal's  flaming  nest. 


152  ] 


We  smelled  the  smoke  of  things  revered.   Our  mouths 

Were  bitter  with  the  char  of  household  gods. 

We  trod  the  cinders  from  the  city's  heart, 

Our  city,  loved  as  hearthstones  are.   Whither? 

The  parks !  A  woman 's  cry.   There  stood  strong  men 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  their  broad  backs  a  wall 

Around  one  stricken  ere  her  time,  her  bed 

The  street.   Aye,  aye,  men's  backs  a  hasty  wall 

To  guard  that  moment  holy,  from  the  crowd. 

Instinct  of  manhood  unto  motherhood, — 

0  God!   The  glory  and  the  pain  of  it! 

The  gentleness  of  those  rough  hands  which  bore 

To  sheltering  that  prostrate  form !   0  face 

Newborn,  adust  with  ashes  of  its  home! 

Whither?   Unto  the  hills  still  green  with  spring? 
The  slender  fingers  of  a  jewelled  dame 
Spread  out  her  fluffy  down  in  silken  sheath, 
Beneath  the  forehead  of  a  negro  child. 
Her  store  of  dainties  hasty  seized,  she  brake 
As  bread  unto  God's  homeless  multitude; 
And  seemed  it  to  increase,  as  did  the  loaves 
Of  Him  wrho  fed  the  crowds  in  Galilee. 

While  tongues  of  dogs  unknown  licked  up  the  crumbs 
From  off  our  hands  in  brotherhood  of  woe. 

The  millioniare 's  swift  motor-car  became 

A  thing  of  life,  the  while  the  man's  own  hands 

Were  black  with  gathering  waifs  and  strays.   This  car 

Was  God's  fleet  messenger  unto  the  maimed. 

It  flew  filled  with  sweet  faces  of  the  nuns 

To  minister  beside  the  narrow  cot; 

With  the  red  crosses  of  the  brotherhood 


153 


Aglow,  it  flew  unto  the  service  field 

Of  skill  and  love ;  then  black  with  priestly  robes 

Which  held  within  the  sacred  vest  the  sealed 

Viaticum  to  cheer  the  way  to  death. 

Piled  with  the  fallen  and  the  halt  it  flew; 

Then  comfort-nigh  for  hungry,  shivering  forms. 

This  pleasure-thing,  built  for  the  rich  man's  toy! 

And  thus  unto  the  sand  dunes  and  the  tides 
We  fled,  alone  or  in  some  brother's  care; 
And  that  red  glare  beat  on  us  yet  for  days, 
Till  hearts  grew  strong  with  giving  others  cheer. 

No  strangers  then!   All  races  were  akin 

By  God's  one  fatherhood  to  all.    A  man 

Was  but  a  man  unto  a  man.    Enough! 

One  brand  of  pain  was  on  us  all.  I  knew 

My  sister  by  the  grime  upon  her  hands. 

My  mother !   Was  not  she  that  babbling  one 

Who  tottered  from  the  doorway  of  her  shack 

With  smoking  garments,  prone  upon  my  feet? 

Not  mine?    Those  children  dragging  at  my  skirts? 

My  brother  from  the  hill  of  palaces, 

His  softened  features  gray  with  cinder  dust 

Of  mansions,  now  forgetting  his  own  loss, 

Tender  as  to  the  firstborn  of  his  house, — 

He  wraps  within  his  coat  of  sable  warmth 

The  sleeping  child  he  found  upon  the  street. 

The  holy  joy  of  such  a  fellowship ! 

The  angels  must  have  wept  and  worshipped  God. 

Thou  city  of  our  hearts !  With  that  first  rage 
Of  passion  primitive  we  loved,  we  loved, 
Yet  helpless  saw  thee  struggle,  gasp  and  fall. 


[154 


What  meant  the  song  upon  our  lips?  The  uplift 
Of  shock?   The  nervous  power  of  pain  supreme? 
Nay,  nay !   The  angel  hands  were  blinding  us, 
Lest  knowing  we  go  mad  before  the  chrism 
Of  hope,  their  fingers  touched  upon  our  eyes. 
The  solemn  joy  of  newborn  faith  in  life, 
And  faith  born  of  catastrophe  is  strength. 
Extremity  like  thine  revealed  to  us 
That  thou  wert  of  God's  plan  unto  the  world 
To  civilize.  We  saw  that  thou  must  rise 
In  evolution  of  His  purposes 
From  thy  baptism  of  fire  to  higher  life. 
Thus  meant  the  song  unconscious  on  our  lips ; 
A  Resurrexit  in  a  Requiem  Chant. 


[155] 

Francisca  Madre 

New  Year,  1907 

What  cheer,  Francisco  Madre,  what  of  cheer 

For  this,  the  world's  expectant  year? 

Struggles  uncanny  hast  thou  now 

While  still  upon  thy  cheek  the  tear. 

The  laborer's  sweat  is  on  thy  brow; 

Thy  hands  have  changed  the  timbrels  for  the  spade ; 

Thy  feet  that  danced  go  firm  and  unafraid. 

With  front  of  light  thou  f arest  to  and  fro 

Among  a  city  full 

Of  wrecks,  each  stone  a  shrine  to  memory  dear, 

When  smites  all  ruthlessly  upon  thy  face 

The  crime  of  blood,  while  from  thy  noble  place 

Greed's  hooked  fingers  reach  to  thy  disgrace. 

With  such  unnatural  foe 

Thy  courage  is  more  pitiful 

Than  thy  first  woe. 

O  life  that  riots  in  the  Western  breast ! 
Despair  it  knows  not,  no,  nor  rest, 
But  in  Fate's  challenge  finds  its  best. 
Through  all  the  pulses  of  thy  throbbing  mart, 
It  thrills  thee,  city  of  the  bleeding  heart ; 
Thrills  thee  with  promise  of  the  coming  year. 

Francisca  of  our  love,  what  cheer? 

On  every  side  we  hear 

The  hammer  and  the  chisel  ply, 

And  creaking  of  the  wains  that  thrust  us  by. 

The  carven  stone  had  been  thy  creed, 

But  to  thy  children's  sudden  need 

Thou  offerest  with  averted  eve 


156] 


A  sheath  of  iron  and  wood; 
They  answer  through  a  stifled  cry, 
"Yea,  mother,  this  is  good!" 
And  pledge  thee  for  a  glad  New  Year. 

Francisca,  watcher  of  the  night,  what  cheer? 

By  day,  thou  paintest  in  the  future's  glow, 

The  fair  dream  city  which  the  world  shall  know. 

But  when  thou  gazest  through  the  chill 

Of  night  from  hill  to  blackened  hill, 

Travail  of  tasks  gigantic  must  o'erfill 

Thy  soul.     Tis  then  thou  shudderest  with  the  pain 

Of  Memory  and  Hope  in  mortal  strain. 

But  Hope,  the  strong  twin-sister  of  the  Dawn, 

Forever  young,  smiles  with  each  rising  sun 

Upon  the  yet  wreck- jagged  slopes,  and  lo ! 

The  broken  hearthstones  flush  in  rosy  glow, 

Above  new  homes  that  nestle  at  thy  feet, 

Like  the  swift-lighted  gulls  of  gray.   And  thou, 

Dear  mother,  liftest  thy  rejoicing  brow, 

As  the  fleet-footed  moments  run, 

Foreshadowed  splendors  of  the  year  to  greet. 

Thou  hast  rich  welcome  for  the  hovering  Year 
That  poises  on  thy  threshold  half  in  fear. 
There's  a  cheer,  Francisca  Madre,  THERE  is  CHEER. 


[157] 
Franciscans  Thanksgiving 

When  the  hordes  of  barbarian  Persians 
Laid  the  beauty  of  Athens  in  waste, 
With  her  sons  came  their  women  and  children 
Making  vows  to  the  gods,  and  in  haste 
Bearing  stones  for  the  walls  and  the  turrets, 
Till  a  city  arose  at  whose  shrine 
The  centuries  kneeled  in  unlading 
Their  argosies'  purple  and  wine. 
Then  ^Eschylus,  reading  his  vision, 
Sang  the  song  of  the  city 's  new  morn ; 
Myron  felt  for  the  soul  of  the  marble 
Which  in  Phidias  later  was  born. 

By  a  power  more  dread  than  an  army 

Destruction  has  come  to  our  gates, 

And  it  struck  with  a  terror  and  blindness 

Which  tossed  us  like  toys  of  the  Fates. 

But  give  thanks  that  man's  greatest  is  left  us, 

The  strength  and  the  courage  to  do, 

A  purpose  as  grim  as  our  fathers' 

Who  builded  good  cites  and  true. 

Give  thanks  for  the  grain's  golden  harvest, 

Sun-garner  of  wind-rippled  fields; 

For  the  opened  storehouse  of  the  mountains 

Where  each  year  its  new  treasure  up-yields. 

True  children  of  Argonauts  are  we, 

And  our  struggles  to  theirs  are  akin; 

Though  the  trials  be  hosts  like  the  Persians, 

An  Athenian  valor  shall  win. 

Then  Art  shall  rise  from  the  ashes, 

An  immortal  unhurt  by  her  scars; 

And  a  voice  shall  be  heard  in  the  ruins 


158 


With  a  song  that  shall  quicken  the  stars. 
As  with  vows,  the  builders  of  Athens 
Made  a  shrine  of  each  wall  they  upraised, 
So  may  we  make  our  city  a  temple 
To  the  God  whom  our  fathers  have  praised. 

Then  spread  we  the  feast  of  Thanksgiving 
With  a  hymn  for  the  days  of  old; 
Cheers  shall  ring  for  the  arduous  Present 
And  the  triumphs  the  Future  shall  hold. 


[159] 
How  We  Went  Out 

She  wore  five  skirts,  he  wore  two  hats, 

He  led  the  dog,  she  carried  cats; 

A  blanket,  soldierwise,  about 

Each  waist  was  coiled,  they  both  were  stout. 

He  had  a  bundle  on  his  back 

And  dragged  a  trunk  along  the  track. 

She  bore  a  hat  box  and  a  grip ; 

The  squirming  kittens  made  her  trip, 

Those  catlings  yowled  beneath  her  weight; 

He  picked  her  up  and  swore  at  Fate. 

In  baleful  glare  of  reddish  light, 

They  knew  not  were  it  day  or  night — 

They  plodded  towards  the  Golden  Gate, 

Then  sat  upon  their  trunk  to  wait. 

Was  this  the  end,  or  should  they  go 

Still  farther  to  the  "Westward  Ho!" 

They  found  a  waif  fast  strapped  on  skates 

Crying  by  the  Presidio  gates; 

He'd  lost  his  pa  and  on  his  head, 

Top-heavy,  bore  the  family  bed. 

She  cheered  him  with  a  mother  squeeze, 

And  fed  him  of  the  bread  and  cheese, 

With  other  pets  around  their  knees. 

The  flames  had  reached  a  hotel  dome ! 

A  lady  rich  in  mines  of  Nome 

Rushed  down  the  stairs  to  find  the  street, 

Rolling  her  packs  before  her  feet. 

Her  latest  hat  she  had  assumed 

To  save  its  owlet,  newly  plumed. 

A  skirt  above  her  robe  de  nuit 

Was  all  the  dress  that  one  could  see; 

Her  Paris  gowns  of  great  expense 

Were  not  just  then  in  evidence 


[  160 


Save  by  a  cuff  or  bit  of  lace 
Exuding  from  a  pillow  case. 
She  dragged  her  bundles  in  this  plight, 
Half  consciously  she  felt  them  light, — 
One  backward  glance !    A  wretched  wrack 
Of  nameless  garments  marked  her  track. 
A  rubber  bag — the  long-necked  kind — 
Was  crawling  like  a  worm  behind. 
A  passer  cried — or  was  it  craze? — 
"Madam,  your  hat  is  all  ablaze." 
She  dashed  it  down  upon  the  pave, 
That  bird  must  go  her  life  to  save. 
One  back  despairing  look  she  cast, 
The  sight  will  haunt  her  to  the  last, — 
That  owl's  glass  eyes  in  vengeful  ire 
Glared  at  her  from  a  wreath  of  fire. 

A  forty-niner,  camped  in  town, 

Had  watched  the  city  burning  down; 

The  dignity  of  one  tiled  hat 

He'd  reached  through  suffering,  and  that 

To  save,  he'd  make  a  sacrifice, 

And  so  he  wore  it;  awful  price! 

An  outgrown  baby  cart  he  found, 

And  started  prospecting  new  ground, 

Unconsciously  he  took  the  word 

Of  time's  old  slogan,  long  unheard 

Since  he  went  broke  upon  the  Trust; 

"Pardner,  we'll  make  Twin  Peaks  or  bust." 

A  house  by  hotel-swelldom  kept: 
Italian  virtuosos  slept 
Far  up  and  dreamed  of  Italy, 
Vendettas  of  dear  Sicily, 


[161 


Vesuvius  and  her  latest  tricks, — 

When  suddenly  the  rattling  bricks 

Made  nightmare  of  the  passing  dream; 

Vesuvius,  still  the  latest  theme, 

Came  first  to  mind,  as  down  the  stair 

They  rushed  upon  the  facing  square. 

Cried  one  with  vast  dramatic  air, 

Arms  waving  wildly  in  despair, 

"0  thou,  Vesuvius,  my  own! 

A  shake  like  this  thou  ne  'er  hast  known ! 

Why  did  I  leave  my  mountain  thus? 

Heart  of  my  heart,  Vesuvius! 

Oh,  give  me  my  Vesuvius ! ' ' 

This  tragic  artist  wore  the  while 

Pajamas  of  the  latest  style. 

What  man,  think  you,  it  was  would  do  so  ? 

His  name?     The  rhyme  demands  Caruso? 

In  garments  anything  but  fresh, 
She  rolled  in  amplitude  of  flesh 
From  one  to  other  of  her  brood, 
Asweat  with  love  and  packing  food. 
"Here,  Jakey,  come  and  lif  dis  pile; 
Don't  go  yourself  away  a  mile, 
Stay  wid  your  pa  and  help  to  pull 
Dat  trunk,  for  it  is  plenty  full. 

"Here,  Bruder  Abe,  you're  high  and  strong 
To  push  your  gran 'pa's  chair  along. 
Now  go  him  slow  or  you  make  wrong. 
Vere's  Zolomons?    Vot  for  you  vait? 
I  tells  you  keep  dat  puggy  straight. 
Der  papy!    She  is  pack  inside; 
Now  give  your  little  sister  ride. 


[  162 


Don't  look  aroun',  but  mind  your  feet. 
How  much  times  must  I  tole  you  so? 
You  mischief  poy,  now  dare  she  go! 
You  spills  mine  papy  in  der  street!" 

"0  God  of  Israel!"  groaned  the  sire, 
"Found  Father  Abram  once  a  fire? 
Had  Yacob  in  der  vilderniss 
Pulled  ever  such  a  load  like  this?" 
From  puffy  pores  the  sweat  oozed  out, 
For  he  was  greasy,  short,  and  stout. 

"You  look  just  like  those  pack  mules,  Jim, 
When  we  came  down  from  Washbowl  Rim : 
The  grips  were  strapped  all  over  him. 
"All  right,  my  girl,  you  can't  say  much 
About  appearances  and  such; 
Give  me  another  pack  before 
I  wedge  you  through  the  big  front  door. 
You  are  so  trussed  up  with  these  things 
You  cannot  spread  your  angel  wings, 
But  you're  an  angel  and  dead  game; 
Let's  hit  the  trail  in  search  of  fame." 
"  0 !  hush,  you  boy,  it  is  a  crime 
To  joke  at  such  an  awful  time. 
Our  home !    How  can  we  let  it  go ! 

Here  Eddy  died — 0  Jim,  you  know " 

"Don't  cry,  old  girl;  if  I  break  up 
I  might  collapse  that  painted  cup. 
The  mines  at  Washbowl  still  are  rich; 
Oh,  luck,  we'll  get  the  diamond  hitch." 
Whence  but  from  guardian  angel's  power 
Come  cheer  and  courage  in  such  hour? 


[  163 


Giuseppe  swore  this  was  not  Rome; 
He  sweat,  he  wept,  and  thought  of  home 
On  Tiber's  bank,  but  quite  forgot 
That  sometimes  there  the  meals  were  not 
As  frequent  as  the  classic  shade. 
Nor  was  the  bundle  he  had  made 
At  leaving  Rome  too  great  to  bear. 
Of  goods  to-day,  if  he'd  been  there, 
How  easy  he'd  ha,ve  dragged  his  share. 

He  met  the  barber,  old  Frangois : 
They  lauded,  in  their  two  patois, 
The  beauties  of  the  old  countrie, 
But  chose  to  burn  and  still  be  free. 

"Now,  Biddy,  give  yourself  a  hunch 

And  get  the  childer  in  a  bunch, 

The  soldier  orthers  us  to  go." 

Now  Biddies  argue  well,  you  know, 

And  Paddy  had  a  bad  half  hour 

Explaining  military  power ; 

And  not  until  appeared  once  more 

A  gun  which  seemed  to  fill  the  door, 

Its  dreaded  threat  would  she  obey; 

"0  Pat,  begorra  is  the  day 

I  left  ould  Ireland  for  you, 

As  granny  said,  i 'faith  'tis  thrue." 

When  she  begun,  it  was  a  whirl, 

She  loaded  down  each  boy  and  girl ; 

Hitched  up  to  go-carts  full  of  duds, 

They  pulled  and  frisked  like  Shetland  studs. 


164 


She  harnessed  Pat  to  homemade  fills, 

And  pushed  behind  to  cross  the  hills. 

"And  is't  to  lave  the  dare  ould  place!" 

She  cried.    "0  Mary,  full  of  grace! 

Mother  o  'God,  look  down  the  day ! 

Pat,  mind  the  childer," — and  away 

Within  the  church's  toppling  door 

One  precious  moment  on  the  floor 

She  told  her  beads  with  Aves  o'er. 

That  church,  fire-doomed !    Her  prayer  its  last ! 

O  faith  God-blest  for  ages  past! 

An  auto  piled  with  silken  puffs 

And  glittering  Oriental  stuffs 

Drove  down  upon  the  sand,  wave-damp, 

Seeking  in  haste  a  midnight  camp. 

A  group  of  Chinamen  was  near, 

Each  man  an  Oriental  seer, 

Calm  in  his  fatalistic  cheer. 

With  rice-bag  parcels  banked  around, 

They  stood  or  squatted  on  the  ground. 

Quick  spoke  the  leader  of  the  crew, 

"My  boys!  you  like  they  helpee  you?" 

"Thanks,  John,  these  ladies  are  so  cold;" 

The  stranger  said,  and  offered  gold; 

"Me  helpee  you,  no  likee  pay; 

Me  alle  same  white  man  to-day." 

Then  with  deft,  long-fingered  hands, 

They  improvised  upon  the  sands 

A  tent  of  Persian  prayer-cloths  made 

With  priceless  rugs  for  carpet  laid; 

A  couch  of  fluffy  pillows  piled, 

Those  heads  to  doubtful  rest  beguiled. 


[165] 


When  morning  dawned,  red-flushed  but  chill, 

Pulses  were  slow  and  voices  still; 

Within  the  tent  all  cheer  had  died; 

A  squeaky  treble  piped  outside, 

" Madam,  she  likee  bowl  of  rice? 

I  think  she  find  him  belly  nice." 

Fluffy  and  white  each  kernel  stood, 

A  thing  alone,  a  steaming  food, 

Cooked  by  this  wrinkled  Chinaman, 

Cooked  as  Celestials  only  can. 

The  native  dames  were  unsurprised, 

The  Eastern  ladies  recognized 

A  yellow  angel,  but  disguised. 


[166] 

Francisca  Diligente 

May  to  August,  1906 

No  more  ''Indifferent  to  Fate 
She  sits  beside  the  Golden  Gate;" 
But  casts  about  with  watchful  eyes 
If  Diligence  perchance  surprise 
Some  wandering  relief  supplies; 
We  thought  we  had  no  public  squares, 
But  she  has  found  them  everywheres; 
They  showed  up  quick  with  army  tents 
And  shacks  and  cooking  implements; 
While  from  a  bread  line  improvised 
Good  things  she  duly  authorized, 
With  life  no  longer  simplified 
To  coffee  and  a  bacon  side. 
She  mothers  well  these  refuge  camps; 
And  watches  all  the  flickering  lamps. 

South  Market  Street  in  peace  abides 

Indefinite  upon  the  sides 

Of  hilly  parks  whose  sacred  green 

Had  never  such  despoiling  seen. 

In  vain  the  neighbors  may  protest 

That  this  continuance  is  no  jest, 

For  mighty  ones  serenely  say, 

''These  camper  folk  have  come  to  stay;" 

While  vicious  wags,  "Ah,  ha!   The  boats 

Political  are  steered  by  votes!" 

She  gives  them  tent-schools  every  day; 

The  bands  for  them  on  Sunday  play; 

Sermons  and  hymns,  each  to  his  mind, 

Assorted  here  the  pious  find. 


167 


A  table  d'hote  she  has  essayed 
Beneath  the  park  trees'  ready  shade; 
Till  those  who  toil  for  bread  and  cheese 
Have  sometimes  envied  refugees. 
Who  would  attack  a  pile  of  brick 
When  soup  was  waiting  hot  and  thick? 
Who  likes  the  mortar-laden  breeze 
While  seats  are  empty  under  trees? 
And  yet,  her  naughty  children  cried: 
"0  Ma,  such  eggs!  They  ain't  half  fried.' 
Hear  that,  ye  hapless  ones  who  pay 
And  humbly  take  what  comes  your  way. 
Ingratitude  was  such  surprise 
That  poor  Francisca  wiped  her  eyes, 
And  thought  of  her  reduced  supplies; 
Not  being  learned  in  landlord  lore 
Of  showing  grumblers  to  the  door. 

Far  from  indifferent,  of  late 
She  oftentimes  consults  with  Fate 
In  watchings  round  the  Golden  Gate. 


[168] 

The  Simple  Life —  on  Sidewalks 

April,  1906 

A  lady,  dainty,  young,  and  fair, 

Was  cooking  in  the  open  air; 

She  wore  a  sweater  for  a  waist, 

Her  Easter  hat  her  head  begraced, 

Her  husband — also  with  a  hat, 

A  silken  tile — demurely  sat 

Coatless  upon  the  curb;  his  feet 

Adorned  the  gutter  of  the  street. 

Their  stove  was  but  a  pile  of  bricks, 

Flung  down  by  recent  chimney  tricks 

Of  taking  headers  through  the  air; 

These  were  a  honeymooning  pair 

And  found  first  housekeeping  no  joke; 

Her  eyes  were  streaming  with  the  smoke, 

The  while  the  sputtering  ham  she  fried; 

The  chips  he  diligently  plied 

To  flames  that  blew  four  ways  at  once; 

He  softly  swore  he  was  a  dunce 

Who  never  built  a  stove  before; 

"My  love,"  he  cried,  "it  needs  a  door." 

And  then  a  moment  all  went  well, 

While  west  winds  had  a  lucid  spell; 

"Now  hurry,  Jack,  while  things  are  hot; 

You  take  the  pot, 

I've  got  the  pans.     There  come  patrols, 

You'd  best  stamp  out  those  burning  coals. 

Then  up  the  front  steps  they'd  run, 

Laughing  as  if  such  life  were  fun. 

The  life  indoors  was  simpler  still, 

And  all  day  long  a  midnight  chill 

Wrapped  her  like  hydropathic  sheet; 

She  went  outdoors  to  warm  her  feet; 


[169] 


No  spark  upon  the  hearthstone  cheered, 

For  if  a  curl  of  smoke  appeared, 

A  bayonet  six  feet  long  or  more 

Came  flashing  through  the  opened  door. 

And  water  was  a  luxury  rare 

To  be  conserved  with  greatest  care, 

For  when  Jack  brought  it  from  afar, 

Where  things  escaped  the  recent  jar, 

To  heat  it  for  her  selfish  use 

Was  of  his  kindness  an  abuse. 

The  evenings  were  in  simple  life 

Devoid  of  interesting  strife. 

If  through  the  streets  they  took  a  turn, 

Because  indoors  no  lights  could  burn, 

The  omnipresent  khakis  said, 

*  *  'Tis  time  good  folks  were  all  in  bed ; ' ' 

The  simple  life  at  night  was  dark, 

For  if  escaped  one  little  spark 

From  hidden  candle  after  eight, 

There  came  a  rattling  at  the  gate, — 

"Put  out  that  light!"  a  stern  voice  cried. 

"All  right,"  he  amiably  replied. 

He  tried  to  imitate  the  mouse, 

But  tumbled  things  about  the  house 

Till  echoes  rang,  for  every  chair 

Seemed  placed  just  right  to  make  him  swear. 

Against  the  door  he  bumped  his  head, 

Then  tumbled  crossways  into  bed. 

It  was  a  morning's  task  to  find 

The  garments  he  had  cast  behind. 


?  ? 


170] 


You  teachers,  try  this  simple  life 
You  call  "  devoid  of  nervous  strife. 
See  how  you  feel  the  soul's  spent  wings 
Flutter  amid  such  simple  things. 
See  how  the  dross,  by  spirit  fire 
Is  sublimated  from  desire, — 
That  lust  for  comfort  of  the  flesh; 
Mark  me,  you'll  know  yourselves  afresh. 
This  gleeful  couple  did  their  best 
To  jollify  the  long-drawn  test; 
But  daily  trial  recognized 
—  By  moonlight  they  philosophized  — 
That  life  somewhat  more  civilized 
Was  worth  the  burdens  it  disguised. 


[171] 

The  Simple  Life  — in  Tents 

Ten  thousand  khaki  tents  or  more, 

The  parks'  green  hillsides  scattered  o'er, 

To  the  idealist  might  seem 

Idyllic  as  a  shepherd's  dream. 

As  landscape  gardening,  they're  not  bad; 

Worse  picnic  places  may  be  had ; 

As  summer  camps  a  month  or  more 

One  may  endure  the  flapping  door 

And  drafts  that  sweep  across  the  floor; 

The  dust  and  odors  in  the  clothes 

To  tent  flaps  pinned  in  swinging  rows ; 

Wall  shadows  cast  by  careless  lamps 

Betraying  secrets  to  the  camps: 

As  habitations  to  endure 

They  should  be  studied  for  a  cure. 

The  simple  life  in  them  pursued 

Proves  both  disquieting  and  crude; 

That  which  in  art  is  picturesque, 

For  living  proves  a  coarse  burlesque. 


[172] 

The  Simple  Life  — in  Clubs 

April,  1906 

From  various  junketings  with  fate 

Six  club  men  sat  in  dreary  state; 

Millions  they'd  lost,  each  man  a  few, 

A  few  were  left  to  start  anew. 

"No  hard-luck  stories,  now,  you  boys." 

Each  man  was  gray.     "Let's  tell  our  joys.' 

A  deep  voice  growled,  "My  throat's  so  dry, 

There's  one  old  joy  I'd  like  to  try. 

You  see  those  tumblers  upside  down, 

And  not  a  lemon  in  the  town?" 

He  groaned  at  such  unnatural  woe 

Who'd  seen  unmoved  his  millions  go. 

One  sufferer  bounded  from  his  seat, 

Flew  down  the  stairs  as  light  and  fleet 

As  wings  of  youth  were  on  his  feet. 

For  this  hour  saved  from  fire  and  shock, 

An  office  stood  upon  the  dock. 

A  man  of  venerable  mien 

Writing  alone  could  there  be  seen; 

And  thither  came  our  millionaire, 

Familiar  and  most  debonair. 

"Say,  Mac,  those  fellows  at  the  club! 

You  know  they've  had  an  awful  rub." 

Behind  his  spectacles'  gold  rim, 
Relaxed  a  bit  Mac's  visage  grim; 
These  words  appealed  right  up  to  him. 
The  office  door  he  gently  locked, 
His  visitor  seemed  nothing  shocked. 
Respectable  and  quite  correct 
A  safe  stood  there;  who  would  suspect 


[173 


That  comfort,   contraband,   could  hide 

Within  its  little  black  inside? 

From  double  depths  all  cool  and  dark 

That  host  drew  forth  a  glinting  spark, 

The  which  his  eager  guest  received 

As  writ  of  life  to  the  reprieved. 

"Come  here,  you  love/'  he  softly  cried, 

"My  coat's  got  loose  enough  to  hide 

A  dozen  such.     Let's  take  a  ride." 

Then  forth  upon  the  dock  they  walked, 

These  Innocents  at  home,  and  talked 

With  manners  grave  and  dignified, 

How  life  must  be  more  simplified; 

On  reconstruction  well  discoursed, 

That  forces  must  be  reinforced, 

Until  they  reached  the  auto,  where 

The  cops  passed  by  with  guiltless  air. 

Mac  whispered  then,   "Now  speed  that  road 

As  if  you  had  a  red-cross  load." 

What  general  or  potentate 

Triumphant  from  the  field  or  state, 

Could  with  this  hero  be  compared, 

This  dear  old  swell  who  loved  and  dared? 

And  when  he  set  that  bottle  down, 
Those  clubmen  seized  the  Bourbon  crown 
As  rebels  often  had  before. 
The  hero  was  ordained  to  pour 
Into  each  glass  the  precious  store. 
Reverent  they  watched  the  sacred  rite, 
Then  held  their  crystals  to  the  light, 
And  how  they  read  its  golden  glow, 
'Tis  the  elect  alone  can  know. 
They  passed  the  nectar  to  and  fro 


174] 


Beneath  each  expert  nostril's  play- 
Delicious  test  of  its  bouquet; 
So  lovers  revel  in  delay. 
And  then  a  solemn  moment  fell — 
Each  glass  was  drained,  its  dainty  well 
A  heaven  no  futile  pen  may  tell. 

The  cork  they  toasted  to  the  cheer, 
And  hung  it  on  the  chandelier; 
Beribboned  there  it  swings,  the  first 
To  break  the  record  of  the  thirst. 


[175] 

The  Reason  Why 

Up  and  down  the  face  of  Telegraph  Hill 
While  our  city  was  swept  by  flames, 

An  Italian  tore,  and  he  prayed  and  he  swore, 
And  he  called  all  his  saints  by  name. 

When,  deaf  or  afar,  they  answered  him  not, 

He  dissolved  into  filial  tears; 
In  the  red-black  sky  still  the  pyre  blazed  high 

Of  the  city  he'd  loved  for  years. 


Then  a  sudden  thought  lit  his  swarthy  face, 
"The  Patron!     St.  Francis,  the  blest!" 

In  relief  from  despair,  he  plunged  down  the  long  stair 
To  his  house  with  its  relic  chest. 

Quoth  he,  as  a  banner  of  silk  he  unfurled, 

"This  is  Francis  Assisi's  hour; 
A  saint  of  such  fame  must  defend  his  name, 

Our  homes  he  must  save  by  his  power/' 

That  banner  he  waved  that  Assisi  might  see, 

But  still  the  flames  rolled  on; 
"0  Francis!  behold  the  folk  and  the  gold!" 

But  by  morning  the  city  was  gone. 

All  night  he  had  borne  St.  Francis  on  high 

From  each  point  of  that  rampart-wall. 
"What's  the  use  of  a  saint  !"  With  his  blaspemous  plaint 

Pie  collapsed,  Assisi  and  all. 

Next  day,  quite  limp  from  the  shock  to  his  faith, 

That  banner  he  found  where  it  lay 
On  a  roof,  with  the  face  staring  up  in  disgrace, 

Half  buried  in  ashes  of  gray. 


[176] 


That  face !    ' '  'Tis  Francis  of  Sales ! "  he  cried : 

"0  Mother  of  God!"  he  wailed; 
"What's  the  patron  about  that  he  didn't  watch  out? 

Or  in  penance,  perhaps,  I  have  failed." 

* '  0  Francis  Asis !    How  did  Sales  get  in  ? 

'Tis  not  he  has  the  charge  of  our  town; 
How  dare  a  saint  rob  a  saint  of  his  job 

And  let  all  the  houses  burn  down?" 

He  seized  the  staff  of  that  banner  defamed, 

As  anger  burst  forth  from  despair; 
"If  this  Frenchman  likes  fire  he  shall  have  his  desire; 

San  Francisco's  fate  let  him  share." 

As  a  living  coal  dropped  down  at  his  feet 

To  its  sacrificial  flame 
He  touched  the  fold  of  that  silk  and  gold, 

And  he  burned  it,  the  face  and  the  name. 

That  martyr  ablaze  he  wigwagged  aloft 
With  jeers  that  were  pious  complaints; 

For  another's  mistake.  Sales  dropped  at  the  stake, 
As  is  often  the  habit  of  saints. 

So  that's  why  the  City  of  Francis  was  burned; 

The  wrong  saint  was  called  to  defend. 
If  Assisi'd  been  there  he'd  have  heard  the  wild  prayer, 

And  mayhap  would  have  changed  the  end. 


[177] 

Francisca  Gloriosa 

A  crown  on  her  head  and  triumphant,  Francisca  shall 

mount  to  her  seat; 
Her  sceptre,  a  shaft  of  the  lightning,  all  enemies  under 

her  feet; 
The  ocean  of  oceans    her    conquest,    the  nations  their 

tribute  shall  bring 
To  her  ashes  abloom  like  an  Eden,  the  home  of  perpetual 

Spring. 
And  the  Orient's  stores  of  the  ages  and  the  northland's 

frozen  gold, 
Still  red  with  the  fires  of  Aurora,  where  it  burnt  on  her 

altars  of  old, 
Shall  build  her  a  house  of  such  splendor  that  masters 

of  progress  shall  own 
Her  a    queen    among    cities, — her    prowess,    that  spirit 

sublimed  which  is  known 
To  the  souls  that,  like  metal  concentrate,  have  passed 

through  the  crucible's  test. 
Then  the  world  shall  unite  with  her  children  to  hail  her, 

"Francisca  the  Blest!" 


Tunes  of  War 


[  From  ff  Francisca  Reina  and  Other  Poems 
A.  M.  Robertson,  San  Francisco 
1912} 


[181] 

The  Salute  of  the  w  Immortalite  " 

(Manila  Bay,  August  12,  1898.) 

The  coming  dawn  flung  out  her  pennants  grey 
Above  Manila,  where,  like  baffled  tigers  hid, 
Lay  crouched  the  war  ships  of  the  children  of  the  Cid, 
While  Dewey's  fleet  held  Europe's  wolves  at  bay. 

The  morning,  with  her  sudden  orient  hand, 

A  shower  of  sunbursts  cast  where  brooding  seas 

Crooned  softly  to  the  shore. 

The  waiting  land 

Looked  up  in  dread  if  yet  the  breeze 

Were  laden  with  the  war-blasts  roar ; 

Looked  toward  our  fleet  of  spars 

With  stripes  of  fire  sun-trimmed  and  burning  stars. 

The  armed  silence  of  our  flag  defiance  hurled, 

Where  from  the  Olympiads  peak  its  bannered  fold, 

Unbound  upon  aerial  waves  of  gold, 

Flung  out  its  daring  message  to  the  world, — 

Our  final  word,  the  lifted  rod  of  power. 

O  Spain!  hast  thou  the  prescience  of  thy  fateful  hour? 

These  tides  upbore  the  English  prows  of  steel; 
Far  off  the  scowling  Kaiser  turned  his  keel; 
Mikado's  sun  flushed  red  before  the  Russian's  frown, 
While  they  whose  sires  had  scoffed  at  Louis'  ancient 

dower 
In  haste  before  the  Czar  bent  down. 

Still  hunt  of  kings  upon  Manila 's  bay ! 

A  muffled  danger  breathed  upon  the  main. 

Ready  to  spring  our  ocean  bloodhounds  lay. 

The  Lion !    Did  he  proclaim  a  strange  or  friendly  land 


[182 


When  toward  Cavite  swept  his  proud  command  ? 
The  Nations'  sentries  jostled  in  the  strain. 
Aghast  the  Eagle  and  the  Bear  that  day! 

From  out  the  British  prows  in  open  view 
The  Immortalite  came  forth  alone — 
The  Lion's  flag-ship  by  its  legends  known, 
Two  crosses  blazed  upon  a  field  of  blue ; 
With  storied  symbol  of  its  power  unfurled, 
Our  ships  it  faced  in  presence  of  a  world. 
0  crucial  hour !    Was  the  Olympia  now  to  meet 
The  standard  of  a  hostile  or  a  friendly  fleet  ? 

Britannia's  ship  with  signal  flags  bedight, 

Passed  down  our  opened  lines. 

At  full  salute,  she  toward  our  flag-ship  swung 

Before  the  array  of  royal  battle  signs. 

Agape  and  hushed,  the  nations  at  the  sight! 

Then  from  the  English  deck  out-rung 

Our  country's  anthem,  which  the  winds  bore  wide 

To  jealous  kings  across  the  listening  tide. 

Ye  lands,  upon  the  eve  of  battle  stayed, 

Under  all  Europe's  hungry  guns 

It  was  our  own  Star  Spangled  Banner  flung 

A-breeze  by  Briton's  sons, 

Beneath  Saints  George  and  Andrew's  shade: 

Her  child-republic's  place  acknowledged  to  the  world 

On  this  portentous  day  by  Albion's  flag  unfurled. 

Outbursting  from  those  flag-ships  twain,  a  cry 
Woke  all  the  dreaming  hazes  in  reply. 
With  brow  uncovered  our  Commander  stood 
Beneath  Old  Glory's  loosened  fold, 
Amidst  his  staff  of  loyal  brotherhood. 


[183 


Then  from  the  Olympia  burst  that  paean  loved  of  old, 

' '  God  Save  the  Queen. ' '    No  men  that  bide 

Upon  the  seas  have  ever  poured  a  nation 's  pride 

Through  brazen  horns  so  triumph  filled 

As  those  glad  trumpets  which  that  day  out  cast 

A  mother's  hymn  beneath  a  daughter's  mast. 

The  watching  squadrons  with  forebodings  thrilled. 

Across  the  waves  the  stormy  Prussian  frowned ; 
Looked  forth  the  crouching  Bear, 
Scowling  at  him  whose  flowery  islands  rise 
Where  Fujiyama's  snows  are  ever  fair. 
And  they  of  France,  in  dumb  surprise 
They  looked  for  him,  the  man  they  found 
When  Dewey's  flag  above  Manila's  gate 
Untangled  yet  another  knot  of  fate. 

0  England !  'tis  for  deeds  like  this,  to  thee 

Our  hearts  are  turned.    Across  the  wrathful  years 

Thy  offered  hand :  the  rancor  and  the  tears 

Forgotten  in  the  blessing  which  shall  be 

When  side  by  side  those  brother  flags  are  furled, 

Till  Anglo-Saxon  peace  shall  lead  the  world. 


[184] 

Dewey  in  Waiting 

(Manila,  May  1- August  13,  1898.) 

God  of  our  fathers!  guard  his  ways 
Who  bore  the  strain  through  many  days; 
Who  held  within  a  single  hand 
The  honor  of  his  native  land; 
Whose  ward  ceased  not  with  tropic  light, 
Whose  thoughts  engarrisoned  the  night, 
Whose  vigilance  forestalled  the  dawn 
And  still  patrolled  each  unknown  morn ; 
Who  stood  alone  and  unafraid, 
And  the  aggressive  nations  stayed 
With  tact  more  potent  than  the  might 
That  took  an  empire  in  a  night. 
What  but  the  hollow  of  Thy  hand 
O'ershadowed  him  in  that  far  land, 
When  error  meant  a  name  defamed, 
Imperiled  cause,  a  country  shamed  ? 


[185] 

Decoration  Day 

There  are  graves  on  many  hill-sides, 
White  stones  in  shining  rows, 

Where  half  a  hundred  winters 
Have  spread  their  velvet  snows. 

To  each  the  Springtime  priestess 
Her  Paschal  flowers  will  bear; 

Each  Summer's  offered  incense 
Will  breathe  a  people's  prayer. 

Over  seas  in  tropic  jungles 

Of  Cuba  and  Luzon, 
The  tangled  thickets  cover 

What  mothers  called  their  own. 

But  snows  shall  never  whiten 
The  graves  wide  scattered  there ; 

Above  them  alien  blossoms 
Their  censers  swing  in  air. 


[186] 

Espana  Dolorosa 

There  were  tears  in  Andalusia, 

There  was  wailing  in  Castile, 
Leon  was  dark  with  sorrow, 

In  Aragon  the  peal 
Of  dirge  funereal  sounded ; 

For  now  the  flag  of  Spain, 
From  four  hundred  years  of  waving, 

Would  never  rise  again 
Where  the  Pearl  of  the  Antilles 

Makes  the  isle  of  sweet  delights, 
On  the  Carribean  waters 

And  Morro's  battled  heights. 

For  the  Senor  Castellanos 

With  no  sceptre  in  his  hand, 
Gave  the  keys  of  power  ancestral 

To  a  hated  victor  land, 
From  the  Palace  of  Havana, 

Where  crime  had  had  its  sway; 
Where  the  sins  of  generations 

Bow  the  shoulders  of  to-day. 

He  looked  not  back  in  weakness 

With  a  quiver  for  the  past, 
Nor  upward  to  the  turret 

Where  an  alien  flag  was  cast. 
One  cried,  "Espana  viva!" — 

His  heart  shook  with  surprise; 
They  saw  one  sudden  tremor, 

One  unbrushed  tear-drop  rise; 
But  he  trod  the  marble  stairway 

With  a  martial  step  and  bold, 
Left  the  Palace  of  Havana 

With  its  secrets  all  untold. 


187 


Ah,  woe  to  thee,  Granada! 

Thy  sins  are  at  thy  door; 
The  suffering  of  the  ages 

Returns  to  thy  own  shore. 
Hist!  thy  children's  " Miserere, "- 

It  is  history's  fate-wrung  chimes, 
And  the  blood-sweat  of  their  foreheads 

Is  the  dripping  of  thy  crimes. 

Ah,  woe  is  thee,  Alhama! 

The  blood-stain  still  is  there; 
Haste,  haste  to  purge  thy  spirit 

With  penance  and  with  prayer! 

Ai,  Espana!  read  the  writing 
Of  the  hand  upon  the  wall; 

Ai,  Espana  Dolor osa! 

Beware  lest  worse  befall ! 


[188] 

"  Remembered  " 
(Havana,  January  1, 1899.) 

Three  Jackies  went  rowing  far  out  in  the  bay, 
Far  out  in  the  bay  when  the  sun  was  high ; 

And  those  laddies — they  did  a  deed  that  day 

Which  should  make  them  beloved  forever  and  aye. 

For  they  placed  our  flag  on  the  wave-washed  wreck, 
On  the  wave-washed  wreck  of  the  storied  Maine ; 

Those  Jackies,  they  climbed  on  the  rocking  deck 
To  flaunt  that  flag  in  the  face  of  Spain. 

They  swung  it  high  over  davit  and  beams, 

Over  davit  and  beams  for  the  love  of  her  name, 

And  for  love  of  the  lads,  who  from  sleep  and  dreams, 
Went  to  dreamless  sleep  and  unconscious  fame. 

And  it  waved  beneath  the  Morro's  height, 

The  Morro's  height  in  Havana  bay; 
Not  a  Spaniard  looked  on  the  daring  sight, 

But  thought  of  another  winter 's  day ; 

Of  a  salient  day  not  a  year  agone, 

Not  a  year  agone,  but  oh !  for  the  change ! 

A  kingdom  lost  and  a  nation  born, 

And  Columbia's  flag  with  an  ocean  range. 

Then  ho!  for  the  lads  who  rowed  out  in  the  bay, 
Rowed  out  in  the  bay  with  the  stripes  and  stars; 

Bless  God  for  the  thought  in  their  hearts  that  day, 
The  brave  true  hearts  of  the  jolly  tars. 


[189] 

Lexington  Day,  1905* 

On  the  hundred  and  thirtieth  Lexington  day, 

What  can  there  remain  for  a  daughter  to  say 

Not  already  said  for  a  score  of  times 

In  loftiest  epic  or  lyrical  rimes? 

From  the  year  seventy-five  to  the  year  eighty-three 

We  have  sung  every  deed  that  helped  make  us  free. 

From  the  Puritan  fathers  who  climbed  Plymouth  rocks 

And  the  deified  women  who  mended  their  socks, 

To  the  squire's  cocked  hat  and  our  grandmothers'  stays, 

We've  told  all  we  know  of  colonial  days. 

We've  sung  the  wild  ride  of  the  young  Paul  Revere. 
And  the  famous  doings  of  Boston  town; 
For  the  Lexington  dead  we  have  dropped  the  tear ; 
We  've  clambered  old  Bunker  Hill  up  and  down ; 
In  feathers  and  paint  we  have  made  our  salt  tea ; 
British  Stamps  have  bestrewed  the  Atlantic  shore; 
Connecticut's  charter  we've  hid  in  the  tree, 
Proclamations  of  freedom  we've  made  by  the  score. 
The  Delaware  crossing  has  not  lacked  its  fame; 
Valley  Forge  has  become  as  a  sacred  name. 
We've  toasted  the  mothers  who  loaded  the  guns 
And  then  wove  the  homespun  for  husbands  and  sons ; 
While  of  Betty's  red  petticoat  cut  into  flags, 
Even  now  every  feminine  one  of  us  brags. 
From  Georgia  to  Maine  of  the  battles  we've  gained, 
To  make  modest  mention,  we've  never  refrained. 
In  short,  Young  Liberty's  torches  and  caps 
We've  painted  all  over  the  country's  new  maps. 

In  the  North  and  the  South  we  have  found  our  great  men 
And  called  them  by  name  till  the  world  should  hear ; 


*Read  before  the  Daughters  of  the  American  Revolution, 
Sequoia  Chapter. 


190 


We've  sorted  them  out  with  discriminate  pen 
From  Washington  down  to  the  last  volunteer, 
Not  forgetting  the  heroes  from  over  the  sea, 
Whose  banners  bore  eagles  and  French  fleur  de  Us. 

In  our  ancestors'  homely  life  we  have  shared, 

And  their  foibles,  too,  we  never  have  spared; 

Those  Puritan  whims  we  Ve  delighted  to  tease, 

Aye,  the  penalties  dire  for  a  Sunday  kiss ; 

In  a  climate  where  everything  else  would  freeze 

They  thought  to  forbid  this  tropical  bliss. 

With  sly  little  thrusts  we  Ve  made  them  our  game, 

Note  that  wooer  by  proxy, —  Miles  Standish  by  name. 

The  sins  of  our  fathers,  we've  dragged  to  the  light, 

But  with  filial  devotion  we  Ve  made  them  our  own ; 

We  claim  all  their  valor,  but  shirk  not  the  sight 

Of  pillories,  burnings,  and  casting  a  stone. 

To  their  times  we  maintain  that  their  errors  were  due, 

That  their  virtues  were  many,  their  faults  were  but  few ; 

Though  we  shrink  from   some  facts  of  our  country's 

rough  youth, 
We  propose  to  accept  the  historical  truth. 

Thus  the  good  and  the  bad,  in  loving  refrain 
We  have  sung  to  the  world  again  and  again, 
So  what  is  there  left  for  us  now  to  rehearse 
But  back  to  return  by  the  way  that  we  came, 
And  in  rhythmical  prose  or  prosaical  verse 
To  vary  our  song  though  the  theme  be  the  same. 

So  from  Yorktown  back  to  the  first  of  the  days 
In  the  year  seventy-five  on  April  nineteen, 
When  the  people  stood  at  the  parting  of  ways, 


[191] 


And  made  their  choice  on  the  village  green, 
Each  year  let  us  tell,  like  the  sacred  beads 
On  a  rosary  great  as  the  nation's  name, 
The  string  of  all  those  glittering  deeds 
Well  worthy  to  shine  in  a  nation's  fame. 

Then  here's  to  the  day,  the  beginning  of  power, 
When  the  choice  was  made  which  gave  us  the  dower 
Of  our  right  to  be  free,  by  the  eight  lives  sealed, 
By  the  hearts'  hot  blood  on  Lexington  field. 
And  here's  to  the  six-score  years  and  ten 
Of  a  nation's  life  which  have  passed  since  then; 
And  here's  to  the  future  our  children  must  brave, 
A  problem  as  great  as  their  fathers  e'er  knew, — 
This  land,  from  prosperity 's  dangers  to  save ; 
A  debt  to  their  vast  inheritance  due. 
So  here's  to  our  sires,  our  sons  and  our  land, 
And  here's  to  the  power,  which  today  we  wield! 
May  our  fathers '  God  be  the  might  of  our  hand, 
To  our  sons  may  He  be  their  buckler  and  shield ! 


[192] 

The  Glory  of  "The  White  Man's  Burden 

(With  acknowledgments  to  Rudyard  Kipling.) 

Aye,  take  "The  White  Man's  Burden," 

And  glory  in  the  place 
Mutations  of  strange  peoples 

Have  thrust  upon  your  race. 
Reck  not  the  price  it  costs  you, 

Though  it  be  the  "best  ye  breed," 
For  Freedom  is  no  phantasm, 

Nor  Liberty  mere  creed. 

Strong  in  your  might  of  master, 

Strong  in  your  brawn  and  pride, 
Ye  have  the  hand  unflinching 

"In  patience  to  abide." 
Cleave  prison  walls  of  darkness, 

The  former  centuries'  dower; 
Let  in  the  light  of  knowledge, 

Though  blows  seem  cruel  power. 

Despair  not  of  the  burden; 

God's  prophet  felt  the  stress, 
The  murmurs  of  weak  Israel 

Still  in  the  wilderness. 
The  promised  land's  true  blessing 

Those  "fluttered  folk"  shall  know, 
When  they  behold  their  country 

To  nobler  measure  grow. 


Accept  "The  White  Man's  Burden 
As  duty's  master-stroke; 

The  freeman's  high  ideal 

"Your  weariness  shall  cloak." 


•>  •> 


t  193  ] 


And  future  years  shall  show  it 
To  those  who  give  you  jeers, 

There  is  a  verdict  higher 

Than  ' '  The  judgment  of  your  peers. ' ! 

Kich  generations  gave  you 

The  brain  to  think  and  plan ; 
Grudge  not  the  seons'  blessings 

To  this  "child-devil"  man. 
Hold  fast  "The  White  Man's  Burden," 

Though  grudged  the  patriot's  meed; 
For  Freedom  is  no  phantasm, 

Nor  Liberty  mere  creed. 


[194] 

Victoria  Regina 

The  earth  is  full  of  tears.    ' '  The  Queen  is  dead ! ' ' 
Ye  men,  with  crepe  upon  your  king's  array, 
Why  make  ye  pageant  over  weary  clay? 

If  ye  have  loved  her,  do  the  things  she  said. 

She  rests  from  strifes  which  broke  her  heart  at  last; 
That  heart — in  love  with  peace — stunned  by  the  roar 
Which  crashed  upon  the  Imperial  Island 's  shore ; 

She  sees  God 's  purpose  now,  with  view  more  vast. 

Sing  hallelujah !    Let  the  requiems  cease ! 
As  angels  are,  all  young  of  form  and  fair, 
So  she,  to-day;  half  wondering  to  be  where 

War  blazons  not,  and  life  abides  in  peace. 

Tear  off  the  purple  bands!    Cast  them  away! 

Hushed  is  love 's  parting  sob  —  the  years  refrain. 

She  who  was  widowed,  walks  in  white  again ; 
Stain  not  with  grief  your  Lady's  nuptial  day. 

Ye  passing  bells,  a  Jubilate  ring! 

Sound,  bugles,  sound!   Ye  heralds,  cry  the  hour! 

Your  Queen  approaches  now  the  Gracious  Power, 
Received  into  the  Presence  of  The  King. 


[195] 

Labor,  the  Prophet 

I  am  grim  Labor,  I  who  boldly  stand 

And  over  God's  brown  acres  raise  my  hand. 

Tyrants,  ye  heard  the  marching  of  my  feet 

Down  through  all  time  towards  the  oppressor's  seat; 

Ye  tremble  when  before  your  face  I  raise 

My  hands  all  grimy  with  the  forge's  blaze. 

My  heralds  shout  upon  the  hills  afar; 

The  firmament  is  shaken  by  the  star 

Of  despots  hurled  from  heaven  into  the  sea. 

No  longer  shall  the  winds  of  vengeance  be 

Held  back  by  angels  lest  they  hurt  the  earth; 

The  vials  are  full, — the  hour  is  come  to  birth. 

Masters,  ye  shudder  at  the  nearing  roar 
Of  angry  waves  that  break  upon  your  shore. 
Each  drop  of  that  tumultuous  sea  is  mine. 
Behold,  that  sea  reflects  the  face  divine! 
The  people  are  the  sea;  athwart  your  path 
They  surge  before  God's  tidal  breath  of  wrath. 

Across  the  raging  of  the  storm  I  hear 
The  angels  of  the  new  life  coming  near; 
Their  trumpets  sound  above  the  tempest's  roar: 
"The  toilers'  bands  are  loosed  f orevermore. " 
And  I,  grim  Labor,  I  shall  wear  the  crown 
Which  kings  and  priests  in  terror  will  cast  down 


[196] 

The  Spirit  to  the  Spoilers 

Spoilers  of  men,  beware  the  dawning  hour; 
Heed  ye  the  shapes  that  haunt  your  dreams  of  power. 
The  ghosts  of  centuries  of  wrong  arise, 
Their  oriflammes  of  death  before  your  eyes. 
They  point  with  ghastly  fingers  to  your  brows  of  Cain ; 
They    cry,    ''Behold    the    earth-encumbering    heaps    of 
slain." 

And  who  are  these  ?    These  dead  that  gape  unto  the  skies  ? 
Was  here  a  battle  where  men  stood  with  equal  chance, — 
Fell  face  to  face,  each  man,  his  effort  like  a  lance 
Full  set  to  do  its  honest  worst  unto  his  foe? 
See  ye  the  helmet  and  the  sword  receive  the  blow, 
When  each  one  strives  alike  to  wreck  or  save  a  life? 
See  ye  the  weapons  of  an  honorable  strife? 

Ye  traffic  princes,  monarchs  of  red  gold, 
Beware  the  fate  of  kings  of  old, 
For  ye  are  one  with  them  in  sceptred  power ; 
Forget  not  years  have  brought  the  toilers'  hour. 
The  centuries  accuse  ye.    But  a  new  one  springs 
From  God  with  promise  on  its  wings ! 

Go  haste  to  loose  your  brothers'  bands  before 
The  sounds  of  woe  are  heard  within  your  door. 
The  angel  of  a  waiting  vengeance  stands, 
The  golden  censer  in  his  lifted  hands ; 
It  smokes  with  fire  from  off  the  altar  ta'en 
Where  ye  have  cast  atoning  gems  in  vain. 
Haste,  haste;  he  flings  the  censer  to  the  floor 
Of  earth;  he  swears  your  time  shall  be  no  more. 


The  Jongleur's  Pranks 


I  From  "Francisco,  Reina  and  Other  Poems 
A.  M.  Robertson,  San  Francisco 
1912] 


199 


Yankee  Doodle  Up  to  Date* 

I 

Old  Spain  took  Cuba  by  the  hair 
And  fearfully  abused  her; 
Said  Uncle  Sam,  "Hold  on,  my  Dons, 
Too  long  you  have  misused  her." 

Yankee  Doodle  help  her  out, 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy, 
"As  friendly  neighbors  don't  you  think 
Free  Cubans  would  be  handy?" 

When  Dons  blew  up  the  Yankee  Maine, 
Said  Uncle  Sam,  "I  swear  it, 
My  boys  shall  clear  that  Spanish  main; 
Let  him  object  who  dare  it." 

Yankee  Doodle,  seize  their  ships, 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy, 
"Before  our  reckoning's  done  they'll  find 
It  is  no  school-boy  pandy." 

II 

Then  arm  in  arm,  our  Uncle  sailed 
With  Dewey  round  Manila, 
Said  he,  "Now,  Dewey,  tell  me  where 
Is  Spain's  renowned  flotilla?" 

Yankee  Doodle,  shell 'em  out, 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy, 

"You  sunk  'em?  sho!  you  must  have  found 
That  harbor  bottom  handy." 


*Written  to  be  sung  at  entertainments  given  in  the  camps 
of  volunteers  around  San  Francisco.  The  boys  in  blue  joined 
in  the  chorus,  which  accounts  for  the  frequent  refrain.  Written 
piecemeal  as  the  war  progressed. 


200 


Said  he,  "Now,  Dewey,  keep  your  hold 
While  I  run  home  a  minute, 
I'll  send  you  loads  of  soldier  boys, 
They're  dyin'  to  be  in  it." 

Yankee  Doodle  hurry  up, 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy, 
"For  Dons  and  Aguinaldo's  tribes 
My  blue  coats  will  come  handy." 

Ill 

Then  Schley  went  hunting  Spanish  ships 
Around  that  ocean-lodgin ' ; 
Said  Uncle  then,  "I  think  you'll  find 
Them  occupied  in  dodgin'!" 

Yankee  Doodle  hunt  them  out, 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy; 
"They'll  bob  up  here  and  bob  up  there, 
At  bobbin'  they  are  handy." 

"We  bottled  up  Cervera's  fleet," 
Said  Uncle  Sam  to  Hobson, 
"We'll  find  a  higher  place  for  you; 
You've  done  a  clever  job,  Son." 

Yankee  Doodle  sink  the  ship, 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy, 
"For  shutting  up  the  harbor  mouth 
The  Merrimac  proved  handy." 

Said  Sampson  to  the  Spanish  Don, 
"Why  don't  you  come  and  fight,  Sir?" 
"Caramba,"  said  that  high  Senor, 
"You've  shut  me  up  too  tight,  Sir." 


[201 


Yankee  Doodle  fire  away, 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy, 
''We'll  stop  the  guns  and  hold  the  fort, 
No  more  brave  words  we'll  bandy." 

When  shot  were  the  Virginius'  men, 
'Twas  Santiago  did  it; 
Our  boys  have  settled  that  old  score 
Just  with  the  town  that  bid  it. 

Yankee  Doodle  pay  your  debts, 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy, 
At  Caney  and  at  San  Juan  ridge, 
Bough  Rider  lads  were  handy. 

IV 

When  Miles  to  Porto  Rico  went, 
He  climbed  right  up  and  took  it; 
The  natives  cried,  "Dear  Uncle  Sam, 
We're  good,  though  we  don't  look  it." 

Yankee  Doodle — what  a  brood! 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy, 
Said  Uncle  Sam,  "These  new  possess 
Look  just  like  lasses  candy." 

Then  he  from  Porto  Rican  hills 
Reviewed  the  situation; 
He  frowned  and  puzzled  on  the  job 
Of  foreign  occupation. 

Yankee  Doodle  thought  a  while, 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy, 
Said  he,  all  pensive-like  and  bland, 
And  stroked  his  chin  so  handy, 


202 


"I  hear  that  sweets  are  not  held  good 
For  Uncle  Sam's  digestion; 
You're  wrong,  my  boys,  you'll  see  me  thrive 
On  that  Hawaiian  question." 

Yankee  Doodle  hoist  the  flag, 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy, 
"Now  don't  forget,  your  Uncle  Sam 
Is  fond  of  sugar  candy." 

"Now  Dewey's  finished  up  the  job, 
Just  what  he  undertook  to ; 
I  think  I'll  put  him  at  the  head, 
He's  pretty  safe  to  hook  to." 

Yankee  Doodle  keep  your  grip, 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy, 
"We  won't  go  back  on  Dewey's  prize; 
My  Dewey  is  a  dandy." 

"Now  Miles,"  said  he,  "Let's  count  'em  up; 
Here's  Cuba'n  Porto  Eico; 
Hawaii  in  the  other  pond, 
Ladrones  and  Philippine." 

Yankee  Doodle  keep  your  head, 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy, 
"For  stepping  stones  around  the  world, 
Those  islands  will  come  handy. ' ' 


[203] 

Unc'  Rastus  to  Marse  Dewey 

My  Dear  Mars  Dewey :   We  sutney  is  please 

Ter  heah  yo's  aridin'  de  hom'ard  seas, 

But  I  laid  off  ter  give  yo '  a  wud  in  yer  year, 

Fer  I's  feared  yo's  gwine  ter  hev  trouble  right  here. 

'Twas  jes'  ter  say  dis  —  when  yo'  comes  f'm  de  Souf, 
Wharev'r  yo'  goes,  don't  open  yer  mouf, 
Fer  talkin'  too  much's  ben  de  cuss  an'  de  bane 
O'  de  heroes  what  comes  f'm  de  conq'rin'  o'  Spain. 

Dey  tole  secret  t'ings  Marse  Kaiser  denied, 
With  strong  sinervations  dat  somebody  lied; 
Dey  writ  de  long  letters  chuck  full  o'  advice, 
'Bout  pussons  in  hammocks  what  et  up  de  ice; 
'Bout    de    quarters    an'    rations  —  dat    "roun '-robin" 
game. 

Den  de  dinners!   0  Lord!  de  battles  o'  Spain 

Wan't  a  circumstance  't  all  when't  come  ter  champagne; 

De  fumes  was  wus  dan  de  smell  o'  de  powder, 

An'  dat  big  twel'-inch,  he  don'  talk  no  louder; 

Dar's  all  kin'  o'  enemies  hid  in  dat  wine, 

Dey's  thicker  dan  guns  in  de  firm'  line. 

So  twar  quoilin'  an'  fussin'  in  'spisable  ways, 

All  aimin'  ter  git  de  bulk  o'  de  praise 

Away  f'm  de  turr,  like  dey's  chickens  dat  foun' 

Dar  wou'n't  be  wurrum  ernuff  ter  go  roun'. 

But  spite  o'  it  all  we  hed  a  gre't  fight, 

Dis  country,  she's  leadin'  ter  lef  an'  ter  right; 

Hit  don't  mek  no  diffence  on'  Ian'  er  on  sea, 

Dat's  a  sho'  'nuff  fac'  when  yo'  b 'longs  ter  de  free; 

De  blue  er  de  gray,  de  black  er  de  white, 

Dey's  all  kin-folks  when  Ole  Glory's  in  sight. 


[204 


If  I's  brash  in  persumin'  ter  speak  out  so  bole, 
It's  'case  I's  preacher  an'  toler'ble  ole, 
But  we  sees  right  smart'  hin'  de  gent 'men's  chairs, 
An'  I  jes  'lowed  ter  give  yo'  a  hint  ter  bewares. 

Dey'll  mek  percessions  ter  tote  yo'  roun' 

Wid  jubilee  fixin's  in  ebery  town, 

Twel  de  row's  es  loud  es  a  big  camp  meetin', 

An'  yo's  natchelly  'bleeged  ter  git  shet  o'  dat  treatin', 

I  tek  noticement  how  yo 's  refused  so  far, 

But  sometime  de  home-comin's  de  tug-o '-de-war. 

So  don't  tek  no  'fense  at  de  'marks  o'  a  friend 

Wot's  bragged  on  yer  doin's  f 'm  b'ginnin'  ter  end; 

Yo's  leadin'  de  row,  yo's  top  o'  de  pot, 

Yo's  de  onliest  Admur'l  we  all's  got, 

An'  we  wants  yo'  ter  stay  at  de  head  o'  de  winners. 

Dat's  huccome  we  say:  " Fight  shy  o'  dem  dinners." 

So  dear  Marse  George,  when  yo'  comes  f 'm  de  Souf, 

Wharev'r  yo'  goes,  don't  open  yer  mouf, 

Fer  talkin'  too  much's  ben  de  cuss  an'  de  bane 

O'  de  heroes  what  comes  f'm  de  conq'rin'  o'  Spain. 


[205  ] 

The  Lady  Reconciled 

A  lady  and  a  tiger  held 

The  birthright  of  an  ancient  f ued ; 
Said  he,  "Pray  let  our  wrath  be  quelled; 

Fair  dame,  I  fear  I've  been  too  rude. 

"In  future  peace  let  us  abide; 

In  pledge,  let's  forth  our  friends  to  greet; 
Behold  my  shining,  fulvous  hide; 

You'll  find  my  back  a  pleasant  seat." 

When  they  came  back  from  that  rash  ride, 
The  tiger  wore  his  blandest  smile. 

Quoth  he,  "The  lady  rides  inside; 
'Tis  thus  our  foes  we  reconcile. ' ' 

If  Science  offer  subtle  schemes, 

My  faith,  be  not  too  soon  beguiled; 

Strange  friendships  may  be  tempting  dreams ; 
Beware  the  lady  reconciled. 


[206] 
An  Old  Bachelor 

O  love  is  a  jade  of  a  wayward  life; 

Sometimes  she  is  gone  at  the  whiff  of  a  breath; 
Again  she  survives  the  most  savage  strife; 

Then  often  she  scoffs  in  the  face  of  death. 

Sometimes  she  will  fight  at  the  drop  of  the  hat ; 

And  then  she  will  take  your  cuffs  and  blows 
As  tame  as  a  household  tabby-cat, 

And  likes  to  be  led  by  a  string  in  her  nose. 

Sometimes  at  the  turn  of  hand,  she  is  dead; 

Again  at  your  tears  she  will  laughingly  flout. 
She 's  enough  to  drive  a  man  out  of  his  head ; 

As  for  me,  I  will  not  have  the  creature  about. 


[207] 

A  Spinster 

Why  have  you  come,  0  love,  so  near, 

Come  but  to  pass  me  by? 
I  sought  you  not,  but  found  you  here; 

Turn  hence  your  trifling  eye. 

And  in  your  vagrant  wandering, 

Pray  take  some  other  path ; 
Your  talk  —  it  is  but  maundering 

To  rouse  contempt  and  wrath. 

Forever  on  some  changing  quest, 
With  manners  quite  too  gay, 

You  are  a  fickle-minded  guest. 

What 's  that  ?  You  Ve  come  to  stay  ? 

I  don't  believe  a  word  you  say; 

You  said  the  same  another  day; 
I  know  your  tricks :  go  way ;  go  way ; 

Whenever  did  you  come  to  stay? 


[208] 

My  Soul  and  I 

"Why  don't  I  die  and  set  you  free?" 
You  saucy  Soul,  don't  talk  to  me; 
I  am  not  half  so  old  as  you 
Who  saw  the  Pharoah  beat  the  Jew. 

You  helped  to  build  a  pyramid; 
Once  in  a  Brahmin  you  were  hid; 
I  know  because  you  whispered  me 
How  sweet  the  Hindoo  maids  could  be. 

For  Babylon  you  sometimes  weep 
When  I  am  tossing  in  my  sleep; 
If  of  Iran  I  make  a  verse, 
You  Zoroaster's  lines  rehearse. 

Please  don't  forget  that  Chinese  queue, 
Though  worn  upon  a  throne  'tis  true; 
And  next,  as  one  of  Canton's  girls, 
You  made  the  tea  for  sampan  churls. 

You  were  a  Turkish  red-fez  man, 
You  babble  still  of  Hafed's  khan; 
I  stood  within  blind  Nydia's  door; 
Quoth  you,  "I've  seen  this  house  before. 

When  the  old  Britons  placed  the  rood, 
You  with  the  ensigned  Romans  stood; 
Though  you  became  her  queen  by  right, 
I  found  you  worn  and  weary  quite. 

You  've  been  worse  off ;  more  civil  speak, 
Since  you  are  such  a  varied  freak. 
I  have  not  kept  you  near  so  long 
As  that  black  slave  of  Intermong. 


5  > 


209 


You've  tried  the  old  world's  worst  and  best, 
And  thought  it  better  to  come  west : 
Then  you  were  very  glad  to  find 
My  infant  form  just  to  your  mind. 

The  west  has  set  the  whole  world-pace; 
You're  still  in  time  to  join  the  race: 
A  new  sensation  you  will  note, 
You  soon  will  cast  a  woman's  vote. 


[210] 
A  Grizzly  in  the  Zoo 

A  shame  to  your  kin,  you  good-natured  bear, 

You  show  no  regrets  for  your  lost  mountain  lair. 

At  play  in  the  cage  of  your  traveling  zoo 

"With  the  child  who  throws  peanuts  and  apples  at  you! 

The  lion  is  wroth  and  the  tiger  is  sly, 
But  you  eat,  and  twinkle  your  small  black  eye ; 
From  the  top  of  your  pole  you  look  down  as  if  man 
Were  a  brother  who  does  what  a  brother  can. 

Do  you  never  dream  of  Sierra's  height 
Where  your  comrades  hunt  on  the  trail  all  night? 
Do  you  think  such  hide  and  muscles  were  meant 
To  accept  a  pampered  and  slavish  content? 

Eesistance  that  fails  is  better  by  far 
Than  submission  that  fondles  its  cage  and  its  bar. 
Break  some  fetter  that  binds;  go  tear  up  the  earth, 
And  show  yourself  worthy  your  savage  birth. 

The  tiger's  snarl  and  the  lion's  roar, 
That  pierce  unavailing  their  iron  door, 
Less  ignoble  seem  than  the  pitiful  play 
Of  the  mighty  paw  that  was  meant  to  slay. 


[211] 

A  Bilious  Day 

One  day  I  stalked,  when  Fate  had  balked 

And  things  were  in  a  fix, 
With  brows  of  gloom  and  thoughts  of  the  tomb, 

On  the  shores  of  the  river  Styx. 

"I'm  dead,"  said  I;  "No  more  I'll  try 

This  hatefnl  race  to  win; 
So  Charon,  dear,  your  boat  bring  here 

And  kindly  take  me  in." 

Contemptuously  he  said  to  me, 

With  eyes  askance  the  while, 
"A  healthy  ghost!   Back  to  your  post, 

A  potion  take  for  bile." 

The  advice  was  good  and  it  has  stood 

The  test  of  many  a  friend; 
And  so  for  you  when  you  are  blue, 

The  same  I'll  recommend. 


[212] 

Triolet 

How  dared  he  do  it, 
To  kiss  those  girls! 
But  he  will  rue  it; 
How  dared  he  do  it ! 
Fate  led  him  to  it 
With  smiles  and  curls; 
How  dared  he  do  it, 
To  kiss  those  girls ! 


[213] 
Rondeau 

0  Jack,  don't  tease  me  every  day, 
Go  talk  to  Grace  or  Nell  or  May; 
Why,  every  time  I  tell  you  nay, 
It  only  makes  you  still  more  bold, 
As  if  you  never  had  been  told. 

Dear  heart!     That  little  word  I  pray, — 
The  word  which  never  can  grow  old, 
Makes  darkness  bright  and  sorrow  gay, 
For  which  a  world  is  gladly  sold, 

That  little  word,  "I  love." 

That  word  is  but  an  idle  play, 

Or  else  another  name  for  gold. 

The  changes  on  that  word  you've  rolled 

Till  tired  of  being  so  cajoled; 

I've  only  one  thing  left  to  say, — 

That  little  word,  "I  love." 


[214] 
Why? 

What  makes  you  ask  Dan  Cupid  "Why? 
And  what  did  you  get  for  a  saucy  reply 
But  another  arrow  straight  in  the  eye  ? 
So  never  ask  the  little  god  "Why?" 
For  Love  never  knows  the  reason  why. 


[215] 
The  Discarded  Lover 

O  love  is  illusion  and  passion  a  snare; 

Of  the  promise  they  make  you,  beware,  beware ; 

They'll  put  up  a  job  to  break  your  heart; 

If  you  would  have  peace,  with  them  you  must  part. 


[216] 
The  Mess  of  It 

The  gods  made  a  sorry  old  mess  of  it  — 
The  results  we  can't  even  guess  of  it  — 
When  the  caldron  they  mixed  for  the  young  world 

youth ; 

The  joy  and  the  sorrow  they  cast  indiscriminate, 
The  false  from  the  true  they  did  not  eliminate, 
But  left  man  to  add  love  as  the  test  of  the  truth. 


[217] 

Progressive  Love 

Who  says  that  a  second  is  not  as  good? 

That  a  third  should  never  be  had? 
Let  him  try  a  fourth  in  an  Alpine  hood ; 

And  a  fifth  is  not  half  bad. 

Then  here's  to  the  latest;  there'll  be  no  last, 
Till  Death  cries  ''Ho,  you're  mine;" 

Love's  eternal  youth  has  no  future  or  past, 
And  its  present  is  fire  divine. 


[218] 

The  Call  of  Science 

He  Speaks: 

"My  girl/'  quoth  he,  "I  feel  each  cell 
Of  all  my  being  towards  you  swell ; 
These  cells,  you  know,  make  up  the  tissue 
That  vibrates  with  each  latest  issue. 

"That  vital  energy  which  fills 

These  cells,  gives  strange  and  wondrous  thrills; 

This  energy  is  said  to  be 

The  substance  of  the  graces  three. 

' '  This  energy  —  life  universal 
Condensed  from  nothing  —  has  rehearsal 
In  concrete  lives,  by  heat  electric, 
In  waves  invisible  but  hectic. 

"That  your  vibrations  harmonize 
With  mine,  I  read  in  violet  eyes; 
Color  and  light  are  nature's  rhythm; 
Sphere-music  old  is  scarcely  with  'em. 

"To  think,  your  atoms  charged  have  whirled 
Through  space  until  the  insensate  world, 
Condensed,  such  treasure  could  receive! 
0  JBons  lost  we  can't  retrieve! 

* '  And  only  now  I  find  you  here ; 
So  young,  so  old,  so  ever  dear; 
But  still  I  always  felt  you  coming, 
Through  galaxies  of  stars  a-humming." 


219 


She  Speaks: 

"Yes,  dear,  I've  had  my  share  of  trouble, 
Working  through  world-dust  full  of  rubble ; 
'Gainst  Mars  and  many  moons  a-bumping ; 
At  last  upon  this  globe  down-plumping. 

"Through  all  I  felt  your  vital  force 
That  drew  me  to  its  nearing  source ; 
I  knew  this  involuting  notion, 
Condensed  by  vibratory  motion, 

"Concentrates  in  the  heart's  fine  cells 
Till  they  become  emotion's  wells. 
Then  evolution's  working  power 
Develops  lives  of  perfect  flower. 

"Our  lives  concentric  thus  shall  fill 
Thought-pulses  of  the  rhythmic  will. ' ' 
He  caught  her  in  his  arms'  vibrations, 
All  wrapped  in  tangled  concentrations, 

Like  wires  in  spiral  circles  bound; 
Then,  lines  of  least  resistance  found, 
In  scarlet  lips  evolved  the  blisses 
Of  true  magno-electric  kisses. 

Rejoice,  Dan  Cupid!  you're  not  in  it, 
For  science  changes  every  minute; 
Nature  unwound  her  spiral  force; 
Currents  reversed  for  their  divorce. 


[220] 

Psychology  Five 

Adapted  from  the  French  of  Baunis 

11  Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depths  of  some  divine  despair." 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

No  more  of  despair  you  poets; 

We  are  farther  than  that  today. 
Your  tears  do  but  flush  the  nerve-centers 

And  wash  the  debris  away. 

When  you're  hurt  in  the  heart  as  you  call  it, 

The  vessels  engorge  with  blood, 
And  the  nerves  make  a  poison  deposit 

Which  is  carried  away  by  the  flood 

Of  tears,  which  lovers  and  poets 
Have  wrought  into  idyls  of  song; 

But  these  tears  as  peripheral  action 
To  Psychology  Five  belong. 

And  your  tears  no  longer  are  "idle"; 

They're  a  part  of  economy's  wealth; 
"This  stock-theme  of  lyrics,"  says  science, 

"Only  means  sanitation  and  health." 


[221] 

To  College  Girls 

The  college  girls  of  a  former  day 
Were  earnest,  sweet,  demure  and  prim ; 
Calisthenics  mild  was  their  wildest  fray, 
While  to  mission  strands  they  sang  their  way 
With  many  a  gospel  hymn. 

They  wore  no  golf-skirts  trimmed  in  red, 
Nor  did  they  twang  the  archer 's  bow ; 
Butler  and  logic  were  daily  bread, 
And  their  manners  left  us  naught  to  dread; 
Those  girls  of  long  ago. 

But  the  modern  girl!    Alas  for  the  hour 
Which  rigged  her  out  in  togs  of  state; 
Which  gave  her  gladiatorial  power, 
With  equal  suffrage  as  her  dower; 
This  maid  that's  up  to  date! 

The  rostrum  waits  on  her  rosy  lip 
And  the  baton  knows  her  practised  hand; 
While  her  arguments  for  man's  comradeship 
Make  many  a  rash  opponent  trip ; 

This  girl  that  holds  the  land ! 

She's  taller  than  her  brothers  are, 
And  swings  along  with  a  noble  gait; 
She  beats  them  over  the  vaulting  bar; 
In  running  and  swimming,  she  leaves  them  afar ; 
This  last  "Try-out"  of  fate. 


222 


But  the  blood  throbs  warm  in  the  lifted  chest, 
Whatever  her  trend  to  the  passing  show; 
And  as  long  as  her  gowns  are  the  tailor's  best, 
We  know  that  a  feminine  heart's  in  the  breast 
As  surely  as  long  ago. 

But  the  world  shall  be  glad  for  the  new  as  the  old, 
And  hearth-stones  as  bright  as  they  were  of  yore ; 
For  love  flutters  alike  'neath  the  kerchief 's  fold 
Or  the  sweater  that 's  lettered  in  blue  or  gold ; 
So  a  toast  to  the  girls  both  new  and  old, 
Of  today  and  the  years  before ! 


[  223  ] 

A  Pre- Adamite  on  Evolution 

An  aged  king  of  gorillas  sat 

By  the  side  of  his  wrinkled  spouse; 

Beneath  a  drooping  banana  tree 
They  renewed  his  birthday  vows. 

Quoth  he,  while  a  bunch  of  the  fruit  he  plucked 

To  lay  at  her  royal  feet; 
"To  burden  this  day  with  forebodings  of  state, 

I  know  that  it  is  not  meet; 

"But  my  heart  is  sore  for  the  future  youth, 

For  our  tribe  and  the  very  race. 
A  nation's  weakness  approaches  fast 

In  the  changes  of  form  and  face. 

"Of  seven  full  generations  now 

Patriarchal  chief  am  I. 
Not  a  son  has  the  strength  his  father  had ; 

They  carry  their  heads  too  high. 

"There  goes  our  cousin  Chimpanzee,  the  knave; 

Ignominious  shelter  he  makes, 
To  hide  himself  from  the  foe  and  the  storm, 

With  a  shelter  of  brushes  and  brakes. 

"0  degenerate  sons  of  the  future  gorilla, 
Can  you  hurl  great  rocks  at  the  foe; 

Can  you  lash  them  with  trees  ?    Can  you  frighten 

the  beasts 
With  a  voice  they  have  learned  to  know?" 


224 


And  he  beat  his  great  breast  with  concussion 

profound, 

At  his  people's  evolving  disgrace; 
But  his  queen  held  her  peace  till  his  wrath  should 

abate ; 
This  dame  knew  her  proper  place. 

"Does  my  lord  forget,"  she  ventured  at  last, 

"When  he  came  a-courting  of  me, 
That  I  was  more  fair  than  my  mother  had  been,- 

He  deemed  it  most  good  to  see? 

"And  the  fathers  find  nothing  more  worthy  today 

In  the  stories  of  ancient  wives, 
Than  the  deed  of  a  modern  gorilla  maid 

Whose  tact  saved  a  hundred  lives. 

"Has  your  highness  a  stride  less  majestic  and  firm 
Than  his  sires  who  went  on  all  four? 

And  we  lack  not  the  berries  and  betel  nuts 
Though  we  swing  in  the  tree  tops  no  more. 

1 '  And  recall  how  our  foes  have  been  vanquished 
By  the  traps  our  children  designed; 

Perhaps  Nature  may  reach  compensation  at  last 
In  a  race  of  a  subtler  mind." 

But  he  shook  his  grey  head  in  a  muttering  storm : 

"Such  degeneration  will  bring 
The  noble  race  of  Gorillas  ere  long 

To  a  pale-faced  naked  thing. 


[225] 


"A  creature  so  weak  and  enfeebled  he'll  be 

That  in  two  generations  he's  old; 
His  short  arms  may  drop  off  altogether,  I  fear, 

Like  the  tails  of  which  we  are  told. 

"A  weakling,  short-armed  and  bald-headed 

forsooth ! 

Afraid  of  the  cold  and  the  heat! 
When  the  mermaids  at  twilight  are  singing  their 

psalms, 
He'll  do  for  the  shore's  front  seat. 

"Ha!  The  females  of  that  generation!"  he  roared 

Again,  as  if  struck  with  new  woes: 
"Will  they  stalk  through  the  forest,  unblushing 
and  bold? 

Who'll  marry  such  creatures  as  those!" 

"Perhaps,"  said  his  listening  target  again, 

"Those  fair  Gorillitas  might  twine 
For  their  shivering  bodies  some  cover  of  grace 

With  the  leaves  of  the  clinging  vine. 

"And  then  there's  the  plantain,  and  fig  leaf  so 
broad, 

And  the  frond-bordered  fern  and  the  brake." 
Thus  early  did  instincts  Parisian  appear 

The  masculine  scorn  to  awake. 

"A  female  in  plantains  and  fig  leaves  beswaddled, 
And  tied  round  with  twisted  sticks!" 

Sneered  her  lord.   "Have  you,  my  dear  Madam, 

I  pray, 
Been  trying  such  ladylike  tricks?" 


226 


"My  tribe  in  banana  leaves  bandaged  and  hid, 
Whose  arms  scarce  hold  their  own  weight, 

And  sleeping  in  shelter  of  rushes  and  ferns,— 
Call  you  this  a  higher  estate? 

"Don't  tell  me  of  better  conditions  again; 

I'm  sick  of  this  twaddle,  quite! 
I  say  if  this  fad  of  evolving  goes  on 

Our  race  will  be  out  of  sight. " 

He  had  asked  for  his  lady's  opinion,  'tis  true; 

Then  scornfully  threw  it  away ; 
But  the  world  has  evolved  to  such  blessed  estate, 

That  the  male  never  does  so  to-day. 

But  this  king,  undeveloped  and  crude  of  mind, 

Into  fury  had  lashed  his  wrath ; 
And  he  crashed  through  the  forest  despoiling  at 
will 

Every  helpless  thing  in  his  path. 

His  queen,  whose  inherited  kingdom  he  ruled, 
To  the  shade  of  their  household  tree, 

On  her  back  bore  the  nuts  and  banana-branch ; 
Nor  dreamed  that  her  kind  could  be  free. 


[227] 
Concerning  Hoes 

You  have  heard  of  that  over-worked  man  with  the  hoe, 
Whom  lords  and  rulers  conspire  to  rob; 
Who's  supposed  to  concentrate  all  human  woe 
And  stand  to  the  world,  for  the  lot,  in  one  job. 

This  idealized  victim  of  possible  wrong ! 

Perhaps  his  griefs  are  humanity's  fad; 

A  good  hoe  is  a  theme  for  ethical  song ; 

At  an  every  day  hoe,  the  heart  should  be  glad. 

From  the  Labor  Prince  with  his  sceptre-spade, 

To  the  man  who  can  claim  the  LL.D., 

This  life  has  a  hoe  for  every  grade, 

And  it  means  —  hard  work  as  the  right  to  be. 

"And  now  for  my  hoe,"  the  actor-man  said, 

As  he  took  up  his  cue  with  grimace  or  frown. 

Quoth  the  author,  ' '  This  thought  that 's  buzzing  my  head 

Will  prove  a  good  hoe  to  get  bread  and  renown." 

'  *  That  hoe-man  of  song  found  an  easy  fame, ' ' 
Sighed  the  lawyer  pressed  with  his  clients'  sins, 
* '  Compared  to  the  man  who  would  gain  a  name 
Where  'tis  money  rather  than  merit  that  wins." 

As  the  miner  shouldered  his  pick  and  pan 
He  thought  of  the  hoe-song  he  heard  one  day, 
And  he  grumbled,  ' '  He  hain  't  got  it  all,  that  man, 
He  never  mushed  out  on  a  tundra  lay." 

The  emperor  said  to  his  friend,  the  king, 
"Old  chap,  these  sceptres  used  to  be  ours; 
But  these  hoe-men  are  getting  inside  the  ring, 
We'd  better  accept  them  as  Allied  Powers." 


[228 


Thus  the  thought  had  dawned,  and  the  earth  rejoiced, 
That  the  ox  and  his  brother  were  not  alone, 
And  only  that  man  had  a  woe  to  be  voiced 
Who  did  not  possess  a  hoe  of  his  own. 

So  hoe-men  we  are,  both  great  and  small, 
If  we  rule  or  serve  or  buy  or  sell, 
And  the  world  demands  but  this  thing  of  us  all, 
Whenever  we  hoe  be  sure  to  hoe  well. 

L' Envoi 

Then,  comrades,  your  hoes!  to  your  hoes  and  to  work! 
For  the  fields  are  broad  and  brief  are  the  years; 
And  Nature  has  made  no  place  for  a  shirk, 
Nor  ripens  life's  harvest  with  penitent  tears. 


YC   16709 


302355 


\ 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


